In New York
by Falco Conlon
Summary: Spot was no longer the overblown boy hero of a ragtag bunch of Brooklyn newsies. After the strike, offers had started to come in. Political groups wanted him, The Dead Rabbits, Tammany Hall, they all wanted him.
1. Prologue

In New York, when it was cold it was _cold_. The organ grinder's breath hung like white garlands in the air. Spot couldn't see the monkey. It was too cold for monkeys. It was too cold for everything. He didn't have any gloves. He'd gotten frost bite three times in his life and he was nearing a fourth. The boy tucked the newspapers up under his arm and paused in his yelling to cup his pale hands over his mouth. It didn't do much, blowing on his palms. His breath was as frozen as the rest of him. Spot let his hands drop but held them in front of him, still cupped. The tips of his fingers were an alarming grey color. He'd seen that exact color earlier in the morning. The homeless died in droves in weather like this. Spot had passed one curled in a closed doorway on his way to the distribution center. Spot's fingers looked like those of a corpse.

It was too cold to snow. What little snow they had gotten was the dark soot color that belched out of the factories North, in Queens. Anything that dropped to the street remained there, fixed to the cobblestone on impact. Everywhere he looked was smashed fruits, vegetables bled of their color, horse shit and worse. Brooklyn. Where garbage froze in the street like the iced treats sold out of a wagon on a hot day in July. He'd called the city home for six years. Everyone else had stopped calling it a city a year ago, but Spot hated the word borough. It was a city, his city, the city. In Spot's mind, the word Manhattan was always heralded by a vehement _fuck_. _Fuck _Manhattan, _fuck _consolidation, _fuck _changing times and shrinking territories.

The newsie withdrew the papers from under his arm and scanned the sparsely populated street. Who was he kidding; no one would be out in this cold. He'd bought twenty papers thinking he could use a little extra, just in case. Spot hadn't actually needed to sell papers for two years. He didn't need to now, but hadn't had anything better to do on an arctic day in February. Spot didn't deal in papers anymore. Spot dealt in power, extortion, threats. A gleeful smile curled his lips and he ducked his head, a pantomime of humble embarrassment at the thought. He wasn't one to brag, but Spot was no longer the overblown boy hero of a ragtag bunch of Brooklyn newsies. After the strike, offers had started to come in. Political groups wanted him, The Dead Rabbits, Tammany Hall, they all wanted him. He was Irish, he was fierce, and he didn't have what one might call "up-standing morals". Spot dealt in voting fraud, protection, harassment, black mailing.

One of the newspapers crinkled dryly in his hand as he started toward docks. He wondered vaguely if he'd ever be in those pages again one day. He hoped not. Spot could earn fame one way, and one way only. He turned eighteen in a few weeks. Things got messier when you were eighteen. People started using words like "responsibility", "intent" and "tried as an adult". If he could manage it, Spot would rather stay out of the papers from now on. He would leave the photographs to Jack Kelly. He would continue to work for Tammany and he would continue to make money.

He got a few acknowledging nods as he made his way toward the water. In the winter he couldn't smell the river like he could in the heat of summer. Much of it was iced over, but lower down; towards Jersey and Red Hook and Rockaway it was still clear. Some boys held competitions to see who could stay in the water the longest. One of them got hypothermia the week before but Spot didn't know if he'd lived. It had been one of his gang, but it didn't worry him. There would always be more where he came from. As long as ships kept steaming into Ellis Island, there would be more where he came from. The Great Unwashed, he'd heard them called once. He liked it, although he knew he was supposed to be offended. It took a lot to offend Spot. If you offended him it meant he cared a rat's ass what you thought of him, but that didn't happen much.

He was under The Bridge now, the sprawling shadow of it enough to blot out the icy midwinter sun. He liked The Bridge, despite what it reminded him of. Before it there had been nothing to tie Brooklyn to Manhattan. There was the ferry, but everyone knew that belonged to Brooklyn. Before The Bridge, Brooklyn was still its own city with its own identity. Manhattan had stolen that, but Spot couldn't bring himself to blame that on the bridge. He looked up at the massive stone and stretched one hand up as though he could touch the underside of it. A conflagration of pride burned suddenly in his chest and Spot smiled. His bridge, built by his people. He liked that.

He motioned silently to a smaller boy, selling to the women who came down to buy fish, and handed his papers over. He wasn't going to try and sell anymore. A few free papers might do the kid some good, might help him survive another bitter night. The kid scampered off with a squeaked "thanks" and Spot turned to look out over the half frozen water. He decided, as he shoved his hands into his pockets in a futile attempt to stave off frostbite that he wouldn't bother to buy papers anymore. It was something he had been clinging to, perhaps one last attempt to hold onto the frivolities of his childhood. Spot had enjoyed being a kid, despite his chronic homelessness. He'd still been relatively care-free, watched over by the older boys of Brooklyn. But that was done now. Spot dealt in back alley deals, violence, paid-for-loyalty, not papers. He wrinkled his nose against the stiffening of his skin and turned from the water, bound for the center of Brooklyn.


	2. Democracy

On certain days, at certain points, Spot could pick out the rhythm of the city and match his pace to it. Today was one of those. Despite the still cold air the streets were moving with people and animals alike. This was mainly because he stood in the midst of the Fulton Ferry Landing, where it took more than bad weather to dispel the crowds. The ferry itself was no longer in business, unable to compete with the convenience of The Bridge, but it was where the Brooklyn fish market had found its new home. The slap of fish on wood was replaced with loud thuds, the flesh frozen and no longer slick.

Spot was leaning against one of the pilings and watching the market with content disinterest. He came here because he enjoyed the bustle and the biting air coming off the harbor. He breathed deep, the tangy reek of fish filling his mouth, although not as strong as it normally was. Spot turned and rested his folded arms on the piling, looking across the water to Manhattan. The landing was in the shadow of The Bridge but from his vantage point Spot could see the huge white sign that advertised the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House. His lip curled and he spat into the water.

"You're needed."

Spot turned his head to look at the speaker. The blond young man was taller than he; his face rounded and almost childlike. Kilpatrick looked 18, but he could have been older for all Spot knew. He glanced back at the Manhattan cityscape for clapping the sturdily built boy on the shoulder and turning away. He'd known Kilpatrick since the blond had stepped off the boat and set foot on American soil. Spot didn't know his first name, but his friend was called Kill, both a play on his surname and for other, more sinister reasons.

"Tammany?" Kill matched Spot's pace and shook his head at the question.

"Shon. You've forgotten about the council elections then?"

Spot swore quietly although it wasn't particularly vehement. He had forgotten about the elections and what Shon McCrae had asked him to do, but it seemed that Kill had not so there was nothing to worry about. "Where are they?"

"Beford." Kill sounded almost apologetic and his answer drew a heavy sigh from his friend. Spot dug his hands into his pockets in a weak defense against the cold. They had a long walk ahead of them, but it was understandable why Shon would choose Bedford. In the center of Brooklyn, away from his party's head quarters and Boss Tweed's neighborhood of birth.

Shon McCrae was a man who baffled Spot. He was first generation Irish, like Kill, and a good ten years older than Spot. He'd risen in the ranks of the Dead Rabbits, the strongest Irish run party in the city, aside from Tammany, and was Spot's link to Boss Tweed. He had a clear interest in power and influence, but as Spot had learned over the past year or so, no sense of pride. Spot had been raised, if one could call it that, by a fiercely Irish mother who had joined the Dead Rabbits as soon as she learned what they were, but it was always less about politics and more about homeland. New York was an Irish city, as far as Spot could see it, and anyone who had any tie to Ireland seemed to have been born with an innate conviction to defend the country to the death. Shon McCrae was not so. He'd spent most his life in Dublin, but there was no nostalgia in his voice when he spoke of his home city. He didn't even present a love for New York, something Spot could not understand. It was Shon's apparent lack of ties that made Spot distrust him so strongly. Still, he ran the rackets and put the cash in Spot's hand each week, so he wasn't going to cause any trouble.

Their progress was quick, ducking through side streets and undeveloped lots. Their quick pace kept the numbness out of Spot's feet and he appreciated the need for movement. Long walks were less of a burden when it meant your blood kept moving.

Spot could hear the elections before they saw the crowd and he exchanged a look with Kill. The rabble of the city always turned out for events like this. The chance to participate in the democratic process was appealing to immigrants who spent their whole lives just trying to survive. Unfortunately, the elections Shon ran tended to be less than democratic. His job was to make sure Tammany Hall remained in power and if that meant all the votes didn't get counted, then it was just a part of holding onto power. Tammany's biggest sell was that it was an Irish party, although they were supported strongly by the waves of free blacks who were slowly catching up with the Micks in terms of sheer numbers.

And so, when Kill and Spot turned the corner, the crowd they were faced with was a near even mix of black and white faces. A fidgety, mousey looking man was standing on a platform at the front of the crowd and it seemed as though he was trying to retain order. Spot couldn't see Shon, but he was definitely around. The young man stopped before he reached the edge of the mob and jumped up on a lamp post to scan the packed square. He slowly began to spot recognizable faces, his own gang waiting patiently for their part of the elections to begin. They were right where they should be and Spot was pleased. He was beginning to hone this into an art, he decided as he hopped back down next to Kill. He pointed to the far side of the swarm and Kill disappeared with a nod.

Spot looked back up at the flailing man on the platform with a mild sneer of disgust. If this was going to go smoothly then order would have to be restored. He wound his way to the front and as he got closer he could faintly hear the man squeaking over the noise.

"Please! If you want to vote, just form two lines and in an _orderly _fashion enter the house. You can place-…" He gave a startled noise as Spot swung himself up onto the platform and took a couple horrified steps backwards.

"Easy man," Spot grinned at him, putting up an open hand, "I ain't gonna bite you." The man just nodded. Spot didn't know who he was, so he wasn't working for Shon. He was most likely some poor public official who still thought things were ran according to the constitution in these parts.

"Alright!" Spot turned to the crowd as he spoke, hands dropping to his sides. His sharp gaze moved from person to person, making sure to catch individuals' eyes. When he wanted silence, he found it was easier to just intimidate. The crowd was mostly women and older men, although there appeared to be a slightly larger-than-normal turn out of teenage boys. Spot didn't frown but he sought out Kill. He caught his friend's eye and the blond nodded, knowing that teenage boys almost always meant trouble.

"If you wanna vote," Spot said easily in the growing quiet, "you make a line, yeah? You don't shove, you don't yell and you don't cause any fucking trouble. Mr. McCrae is looking for your cooperation here friends." He pointed behind him to the building where the voting would take place. Shon was most likely inside, waiting for Spot to get things under control before he opened the doors.

"You're voting for your councilmen, those fine gentlemen who will bring your interests to the big wigs in City Hall." Spot's grin was closer to a leer than a smile. He had almost complete silence now and it was satisfying. Most in the crowd knew who he was, if they'd turned out for elections before, and if they didn't, then they at least knew his name when it was whispered to them. Spot liked that. "It's your interests we have at heart. Dead Rabbits take care of their own."

He was speaking loosely. Technically Spot wasn't a Dead Rabbit, since he wasn't a registered voter. He was a mercenary, but a mercenary with preferences and he preferred to work for Irish bosses.

The underlying threat in his words must have done the trick because the crowd remained quiet even once he stopped speaking and in a few moments two lines were forming at the front of the house. The platform Spot sat on parted the mass of people like a rock in a river and he remained standing in the center. He watched as Kill took three men around to the back of the building where the voters would be exiting and the tension that had lined his shoulders eased slightly. Things were going fine so far, so all he had to do was wait. Shon would come out with his pay once the polls were closed and Spot's work day would be done before the sun started to set.

A sudden yell broke Spot's reverie and one of his boys appeared at the corner of the building. He was waving to him and there was an expression of eagerness that Spot recognized. Some one had decided that the Dead Rabbits weren't their party of choice it seemed. Spot leapt off the platform and reached the boy quickly. He set off as soon as Spot reached him, talking a mile a minute.

"He slipped the ballot in his pocket," he yammered, cheeks flushed with the excitement. Anticipation of a fight always got Spot's gang going. It was why they were so successful.

"What were you going to do with it I wonder," Spot mused out loud as they reached the scene. A dark haired man of maybe twenty-four or five was slumped between Kill and another older boy called Whitey for his nearly albino appearance. Spot stopped in front of him and leaned down to look into the man's face. He was met with a surprisingly fierce gaze although the beginning of a spectacular black eye was blooming. "Take it to the ballot offices yourself I'm guessing." Spot dug his hand into the man's pocket and pulled out the crumpled paper. He scanned the ballot and nodded once before ripping it up contemptuously.

"I don't understand it," he said, shaking his head. "They take care of you lot, since you can't seem to take care of yourselves. Why would you vote for the Natives, huh?" When he didn't get an answer he grabbed the man by the hair and wrenched his head back so he could see his face more clearly. "Give me an answer and maybe your body won't make the front page." It was an empty threat, but Spot didn't mind. Even without killing him, he could do this man some harm.

"Because anything is better than this racket," the man said after a moment's hesitation.

"He ain't Irish Spot," Whitey said as Kill gave the man a shake. "He don't care."

Spot nodded and pantomimed deep thought. "Well then we don't care much either." The man looked up just in time to have Spot's fist connect with his face. There was a sickening crunch and blood spouted out of his nose. He slumped farther down in Kill and Whitey's arms. Spot felt the eagerness for a fight slip away. If he wasn't going to fight back then the fun went out of it.

"Next elections," Spot said, shaking his hand out, "I wouldn't bother dropping by if I was you." Blood spattered Spot's shoes as the man spat at him. Spot snarled and there was another crunch as his fist caught the man in the mouth. The two young men flanking him let him drop and Spot turned with a roll of his eyes. He could understand braving bodily harm, but not for something as arbitrary as one vote in an election that didn't matter much anyway. He nudged the crumpled man with the toe of his boot before waving his cronies away. He'd wait for his victim to collect himself before getting his name out of him. Shon liked to know who it was dissenting when something like this happened. What McCrae did with the names afterwards, Spot didn't know, but he didn't much care either.


	3. Hollis

The sun had sunk below the horizon of the buildings by the time McCrae sent Spot word that he could go home. Without a word of thanks to the messenger, Spot started back toward the water. His feet hurt; he'd been standing all day, and he couldn't feel the tips of his fingers. The cold grew more brutal as the sun sank and a wind had picked up around three in the afternoon. Spot pulled his coat around himself in a futile gesture and the thoughts of the warm pub kept his pace quick. He was getting tired of running elections. Most of it was waiting around and Spot was beginning to get bored.

The problem was his mind. Spot wasn't much of a follower and Shon McCrae kept trying to fit him into that mold. The truth was that Spot could be as fast as he wanted, but he could still be beaten in a physical fight if the guy was strong enough. No, Spot's real strength was his mind. He rarely missed a single detail, noticing things where most saw nothing of great significance. It was how he had made it so far in such a short time. It was how he'd gotten rid of the previous Brooklyn leader, pure manipulation. But McCrae was using him as dumb muscle and Spot was getting tired of it. He grew bored quickly, if his quick mind wasn't occupied, and when Spot got bored, he got restless and ornery.

As he walked, his mind went back to the man they'd roughed up for stealing a ballot. Everyone Spot knew was afraid of Tammany Hall, but most accepted it because Tammany was run by their own kind and if an Irishman trusted anyone, it was another Mick. But that man had been unhappy enough to risk his physical safety. Spot rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. There was nothing he had more distain for than a hero. He'd seen too many men die when they'd tried to make things better for anyone but themselves. In the end, Spot had decided a long time ago, what mattered was your own survival and fuck everyone else.

He was pulled out of his thoughts as he turned the corner and the raucous noise of a bar filled the street. A few men stumbled out of the well lit doorway, one trying to hold the other up. Spot smiled and his stride lengthened at the prospect of warmth. He'd been coming to Gritty's since he'd been old enough to see over the counter. He lived in the apartment above the place, sharing the place with Kill.

A pleased roar of welcome went up as he stepped inside and Spot grinned, throwing his hands up in the air. He may have been a loner, but that didn't mean he turned down well deserved adoration.

"Hey boys," he shrugged his jacket off and sat at the bar, grin still wide. It was hot inside, the warmth of bodies aiding the superheating wood stove that stood in the corner. Warm enough in fact, that Spot had no need for heat in his own apartment because so much of it filtered upstairs.

"Another successful day at the polls, eh Conlon?" The bartender, James, slid the young man a beer and Spot laughed roughly.

"It's all a fuckin' drag." He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it up. "McCrae is running me into the ground Jimmy. I'm spendin' so much time in the cold I think my balls are frostbit." James laughed uproariously and Spot smiled at him fondly.

"If it's so bad," a young voice came from a table behind Spot and the Brooklynite turned to see who it was, "why don't you just stop?"

The boy was thin and blond, couldn't have been older than fifteen. He wasn't looking at Spot and his shoulders were hunched as he leaned over the table. A few others were sitting with him but their surprised gazes told Spot that they had no idea what the kid was up to. Spot took a deep drag off the cigarette before pushing to his feet and bending to examine the boy.

"What's your name kid?" The bar had quieted some, but was large enough that most still hadn't yet noticed the potential drama. There was a long pause and Spot cocked his head to the side, taking another drag. He was willing to wait.

"Hollis," the kid spoke after a hesitation. He looked up but it took him a moment to meet Spot's eyes. Spot smiled, noticing the lack of confidence in the boy's posture.

"Alright Hollis, you wanna know why I don't just stop?"

There were a few chuckles but Spot held up his hand. "No, it's a decent question. He ain't stupid for askin'. Why don't I quit?" He thought for a moment, straightening and scratching his chin with the hand that held the cigarette. He pushed the other into his pocket and rocked back on his heels. "I think maybe cuz it keeps me in smokes and booze Hollis. I like having a warm place to go at night, you know?" He leaned back down again. "Do _you _have a warm place to go, Hollis?"

There was another long pause and Hollis swallowed hard. Every nervous gesture made him look that much younger. "No." He shook his head. "I don't."

"Unsurprising," Spot laughed and turned away, going back to his beer. "Jesus Christ, why do I do it? Why the fuck did he think I did it?" There was more laughter as Spot sat, giving James a rueful look, "I jus' love Shon McCrae so much, I do it to be near him."

The laughter was loud now. Spot would have gone back to enjoying the warmth and the beer, but Hollis was speaking up again, nearly shouting to be heard over the noise of the pub.

"But if he's hurtin' people," he said, voice gaining strength, "I mean Irish people Spot, like you and me. If he's hurtin' people, shouldn't you stop him?"

The noise dropped again and Spot turned quicker this time. The boy's eyes were shining with obvious anxiety and Spot had to give him points for determination. Spot leaned forward on his knees and sent the boy a swift glare. He could almost see Hollis' resolution crumble.

"What the fuck do you mean _hurtin' people_?" Spot nearly spat. "What'd you think I _do _kid? Grow flowers? 'Course he's fuckin' _hurtin' _people. That's the whole point, ain't it?"

"But it ain't the point Spot," Hollis said quickly, pushing to his feet. He was a good five inches shorter than Spot, a disparity made obvious as Spot stood as well. "I mean the point of livin' here and all. In America. The people is supposed to be able to choose and with Shon, we can't choose and that's hurtin' us."

"What?" Spot nearly laughed out loud and the humor must have been clear on his face because Hollis literally wilted, the bravado from his speech quickly fading. "Kid, get the fuck outta here. I don't need this shit." He turned and sent a shocked look to Kill who was sitting a ways down the bar. The large blond snorted and shook his head.

"Hey, you heard the man." James spoke loudly, gesturing to the door with a rag filled hand. "Get out, kid."

There was a pause before Spot heard the door shut quietly. The noise rose again and Spot sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "What a fuckin' joke," he groaned and went back to his cigarette, more interested in letting the smoke slide down his throat than thinking about what Hollis had said. He couldn't afford to think about something like that.

"I don't where he came from Spot," Kill said softly from behind him. Spot looked over his shoulder to see his friend standing with his arms crossed. "I can find out if you want. Might be trouble."

"If you have the energy," Spot said with a raspy chuckle. "I don't. Fuck it," he threw his cigarette to the ground and stamped it out. "I'm goin' to bed. You all better shut up or I'll crack skulls." He clapped Kill on the shoulder and the blond nodded, watching him go. He planned on finding out what Hollis was talking about. Kill had an uncanny nose for trouble and what with the man at the polls today and Hollis turning up on Spot's doorstep, the air was reeking with it.


	4. Questioning

It looked like snow, something Shon McCrae didn't relish. He set his fork down on his plate and took a few moments to stare out the window and up at the grey sky. Something hung over the city, he had noticed, before it began to snow, as though every living thing was holding its breath and waiting for the first flake to fall. Shon didn't mind snow; it wasn't much of an inconvenience unless there was too much of it and in New York City that wasn't particularly common. The constant damp of the wind off the ocean kept the conditions from being perfect for snow.

He looked up as a clank came from the kitchen and he pushed to his feet, finishing off the glass of cider he'd had with breakfast. He was a tall man, but thin and wiry; a shock of bright red hair crowning his head in a shaggy cut. The scruff of his beard was equally vivid, although he'd never allowed it to grow very long.

"Mary?" The lilt of his accent was strong and hadn't faded since he'd come to America. Shon had no interest in sounding like an American, although he wasn't much of an Irish nationalist either. Shon's source of pride was his own accomplishment, that he'd come to this country without a cent and managed to fight his way into a more than decent life.

"Sorry!" A light voice came from the kitchen and Shon smiled. He stepped into the kitchen and watched as his wife bent to pick the fallen frying pan off the floor. She was much shorter than him, delicate and bird like. Mary's hair was what Shon's sister had called mousey brown and bones of her face were angular, defined. Shon thought she was beautiful.

The younger woman smiled up at him sheepishly, teeth crooked, and she shrugged. "Clumsy today." She set the frying pan on the stove where it belonged and went back to cleaning up. Shon laid a light kiss on her cheek as he set his empty plate in the wash tub they used as a sink.

"Clumsy every day," he reminded her good naturedly. Mary slapped his arm with a wet hand as he passed behind her to go to their bedroom. They'd been married for a year now. Shon had asked her when she'd told him her father had kicked her out of the house, unwilling to provide for his daughter any longer. She was nineteen to his thirty but Mary had never seemed to mind. She needed a warm place to sleep at night and his bed was as good as any other, better even. The two got on well, both quiet people, more prone to silence than constant chatter. Shone preferred it that way and figured he'd gotten lucky with Mary. Their neighbors had regular screaming matches, voice levels rising until Shon was forced to go next door and remind them that only trouble came from disturbing him. He and Mary never fought.

A rap on the door echoed through the small apartment and Shon frowned in the middle of changing his shirt. He shrugged off the dirty garment before making his way through the kitchen again. Mary looked up at him and he shrugged, setting a hand on her shoulder before going to the front door. They got visitors on a fairly regular basis but rarely this early in the morning.

Shon swung the door open and his eyebrows shot up as Spot Conlon came into view; standing in the hall, staring intently to the side as though there was some mystery in the neighbor's door he was attempting to solve.

"Spot," Shon said shortly. He respected the boy just fine, but trusted him about as far as he could throw him. He assumed that Spot probably felt the same way about him. They had a tenuous relationship, both needing the other for various reasons, but neither really willing to admit that fact.

"Shon." Spot turned his sharp eyes on the older man and pulled his hands from his pockets. He'd only come to Shon's residence once before, when he'd been in trouble with the police, but this was a much more benign visit. "I wanted to talk to you. About the man at the elections?"

"It's taken care of," Shon said, turning back into his apartment, leaving the door open for Spot to follow.

Spot opened his mouth to reply but closed it quickly again, frowning. There was something decidedly ominous about the way Shon had said that. He decided in that moment not to tell Shon McCrae about the boy in the bar last night, Hollis. "It was the first time in a long while McCrae. You sure it ain't trouble?"

Shon stopped in the small sitting room they were passing through and turned again to look at Spot. "I said it was taken care of, didn't I?" The man had been a brief annoyance, but easily dealt with. Shon refused to let anything threaten his power base.

"What's taken care of?" Both men looked up to see Mary standing in the door, wiping her hands dry with a towel that perhaps had once been white. She smiled at Shon before examining Spot. They'd never met before and Mary was a little taken aback by this unsmiling young man. She wouldn't have guessed he was older than 18 but Mary couldn't tell. There was something in his eyes that made it difficult to be sure.

"Nothing Mary," Shon said, lifting his hand to stop anymore questions. "This is Spot Conlon. He works for me."

"So _you're _Spot Conlon," she said, nodding. "I've heard plenty about you." She grinned but Spot didn't return the sentiment. Mary's smile faded and she swallowed a little.

Shon looked between the two and frowned suddenly. "Mary, why don't you go finish up the dishes. Spot will only be a minute." His wife nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Shon to glare down at the Brooklyn gang leader.

Spot met his gaze and remained silent until Shon made a displeased noise. "What do you want Spot? I don't need you again until next week."

"There are rumors Shon," Spot said, nearly cutting the redhead off mid sentence. "People are running around talking about how this isn't right, how you run things. No one has said they're going to do anything yet, but they ain't happy. I mean, wasn't that guy yesterday out of the ordinary?"

Shon didn't respond and went back to staring out at the snow heavy sky. Spot's eyes narrowed and he spread his hands. "I reserve the right to back the fuck out if things get rough Shon. You know that."

Shon just waved his hand around vaguely and turned from Spot to finish getting dressed. Spot's lip curled in a snarl at being dismissed so blithely but he went to let himself out. Getting in an argument with Shon McCrae wasn't worth it. Not yet at least.

* * *

The cold was less biting today, or it least it seemed so. Perhaps Kill had just finally gone completely numb and couldn't feel the wind anymore. He was doing what he'd told Spot he was going to do the night before, find out a bit more about Hollis. He was assuming the boy was a newsie, judging by his age and lack of money, so Kill was bound for the lodging house on Poplar Street. Kill had spent his childhood in the run down brick building that was home to the Brooklyn newsies. It was where he'd met Spot and he had been on the roof of the building when he'd agreed to leave with Spot and start working for Tammany Hall. They'd both been through the strike together, which was a nice little distraction from the futility of their lives, but both Kill and Spot knew that a few days of being in the papers wouldn't solve their problems.

Kill stopped across the street from the lodging house and stared up at it for a moment, rubbing his hands together. The windows were tall and skinny, long stretched eyes in the face of the brick. He smiled wryly as he remembered stuffing blankets in the cracks of those windows, trying to keep the bitter cold out. He knew nothing would have changed in the two years he'd been gone.

A bell above the door jingled as he entered and he looked up in surprise. That was new. A nun, her wimple starched and clean, sat behind the high desk. She looked up as the bell rang.

"Coram Kilpatrick." Kill grinned at the sound of his name and he nodded his head to the woman.

"Hey Sister Agnes. Beautiful as ever."

"Coram what on earth are you doing back here?" She struggled obviously against a smile at his flattering. She won, but only barely.

"I'm lookin' for some one Agnes, thought maybe I should start here." Kill brought his hand midway up his chest to indicate Hollis' height. "Blond kid. Calls himself Hollis?"

"Oh yes." Agnes smiled and nodded. She pointed to the stairs behind her. They were wrought iron and looked less than reliable. "He should be upstairs, keeping out of the cold."

Kill nodded and gave the woman's hand a squeeze where it rested on the desk as he passed her. Agnes was one of the many nuns who ran the Home for News Boys on Poplar Street. She'd been there for as long as Kill could remember and she'd always had a soft spot for him. Of course, all the nuns had a soft spot for Kill. He and Conlon had been favorites around the lodging house and it seemed even that hadn't changed.

When he entered the familiar bunk room it took him a moment to see anyone at all. Most were out, despite the cold, because if they didn't sell, they didn't eat. That meant Hollis had something to fall back on. If he didn't have to sell every day then there was some other source of income he could rely on. Kill figured he was a pick pocket. Most boys his age were.

He saw the blond sitting with a black boy who looked about Hollis' age and advanced quickly on the two, boots thudding dully on the worn wooden boards of the floor. Hollis pushed to his feet quickly when he saw who the intruder was but the black boy remained sitting, staring at Kill, perplexed.

"Easy kid." Kill put his hand up and gestured that he should sit again. "I ain't here to hurt you. I just got a few questions to ask."

"Like what?" Hollis' voice was shaky; to say the least, but Kill had to give him points for meeting his eyes.

"Like why the hell you'd talk to Conlon like that last night?" Kill hid a bemused smile under the cover of scratching his cheek.

"Aw man Hollis," the black boy said suddenly, rolling his eyes. "What stupid thing did you do this time?"

Kill watched him for a long moment as Hollis stuttered, trying to come up with an answer to the accusation. "I know you." Kill pointed at Hollis' friend, brow furrowed. "From the strike right?" One eyebrow went up in incredulous surprise and Kill leaned forward to examine the younger boy. "You're one of Jack Kelly's, right?"

The boy hesitated and Kill's expression grew impatient. "_Right_?"

"Yeah," he said quickly, "Yeah. My name's Boots."

"Boots…yeah I remember now." Kill straightened and his frown was deep set now. Hollis looked confused and his eyes danced between the two. There was suddenly an uneasiness that was making him anxious. He shifted his weight on the chair as Kill spoke again.

"What're you doing in Brooklyn?"

Boots opened his mouth to respond but Hollis beat him to the punch. "He's just visiting me Kill. I used to sell in Manhattan with my brother." He seemed very eager to explain even as Boots covered his eyes with one hand, shaking his head. "My brother, he's the one who said it ain't right. He said that people are coming to this country for the democracy and that it ain't right to take it from them. Jack says…"

"Hollis!" Boots said sharply, staring at his friend in disbelief. "Shut up!"

But Kill's interest was already peaked and he didn't take his eyes from Hollis, even as the boy sunk into his seat, cheeks red. "Jack says, huh?" He crossed his arms over his chest, "Jack talking about goings on in Brooklyn, Hollis? That what he spends his time doing? He say something about Spot?"

Hollis shook his head wildly but Kill just laughed, not believing him. So Jack Kelly was talking about everything Spot was doing wrong. Surprise, surprise. Kill set a threatening hand on Hollis' shoulder, gaze dark with anger. "You should probably head back to Manhattan with Boots here, Hollis. Tell your brother that if he's got a problem with how things is run, he can come and fill out a complaint form." He gave Hollis' shoulder a squeeze and turned, leaving the two boys in silence.

The stairs shook under Kill's heavy frame and he gave a brief smile to Agnes as he passed her post on his way to the door. Kill knew what Hollis said had been trouble. Anything involving Jack Kelly was trouble. For a moment Kill considered not telling Spot what he'd learned but thought better of it. Spot had held a deep loathing for Manhattan ever since the boroughs had been consolidated and as a result, his tolerance for the idealistic urban cowboy was at an all time low.

Low in his gut Kill felt something like apprehension, the same sort of waiting feeling that settled over the city before a snow storm. His boots sounded muffled on the cobblestone in the heavy air and Kill turned his face up to the sky as the first flakes began to fall.


	5. Confrontation

"It's taken care of." Spot was muttering under his breath as he crossed the street that was the boundary of Bedford-Stuyvesant and the adjacent neighborhood. He earned a glance from an older woman he brushed by but he didn't bother to correct her assumption of insanity. Even if he hadn't been so preoccupied he didn't particularly care.

"What the fuck does that _mean?_" He rounded a corner and winced as he turned into the wind. It was warmer, as it usually was during a snow fall, but the flakes whipped against his face and he was fairly sure his lips were turning blue. "It's been taken care of." He was in the square where the elections had taken place the day before and once he was in sight of the building he was looking for, he broke into a quick jog, eager to get indoors.

As the door slammed shut behind him Spot finally admitted to himself that he knew exactly what Shon had meant when he said the dissenting man had been taken care of. That was the difference between Shon and Spot. The younger man had no qualms with aggression or violence, but murder was a different matter all together. For Spot, murder was a last resort, not a tool of control.

He was in a clerk's office, the lamps lit early because of the grey sky and lack of light. In the back of the one room office was a large oak desk, an elderly man sitting behind it and scratching something arthritically on the pages of a large book. Six smaller desks sat in rows in the foreground but only three of them were filled.

The graying man looked up as the door closed and he half rose from his chair when he saw Spot. The clerks, sitting at their individual desks, stopped writing for a moment and watched as Spot made his way down the aisle. He lifted his hand to indicate the man shouldn't stand.

"The ballots were already sent to City Hall, Spot." The man sank into his seat again and folded his hands on the desk. "Shon said not to expect you."

"I'm here on my own." Spot stopped a foot in front of the desk and crossed his arms. "The man who tried to steal a ballot. What was his name?" The past tense came out involuntarily and Spot wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"Winters," the man said after a moment of thought, "Richard Winters."

"Where's he live?"

"Up near the lodging house." The man pointed in the direction Spot had come from. "Henry Street, not sure which building."

Spot nodded once but was silent for a beat before turning to leave. "Spot?" The man's voice stopped him and the boy looked over his shoulder. "Why?"

"Just curious." Spot gave him a brief smile and went for the door.

* * *

By the time Spot had reached Henry Street the snow had begun to pile in drifts anywhere it felt would be most convenient. Of course, this did not necessarily coincide with the citizens' idea of convenient so Spot was in a foul mood. His boots were soaked and the bottom half of his pants were well on their way to sopping.

However, he had gotten lucky in finding Richard Winter's building. It was a tightly knit neighborhood and when he'd said the name to a passing woman he'd gotten a bright smile and a finger pointing at the tenement across the street from where he was standing. Spot had raised his eyebrows, wondering if perhaps he was wrong in his assumption that the man was dead. He didn't bother to ask, just mumbled his thanks and crossed the street.

The stairwell was dark and dingy, as most tenement stairwells were, and somewhere many stories above his head a baby was wailing. He needed to knock on a door and ask which apartment was Winters', but as he reached the third floor a small girl shot out of a dark doorway and nearly knocked him off his feet.

"Hey!" Spot held back a colorful curse and caught the girl by the arm. She squeaked and tugged on his grip with surprising strength. "Hey easy," he laughed, turning her so he could bend down and examine her dirty face. She couldn't have been older than eight. "I just wanna ask a question."

"What kinda question?" she asked, still wriggling.

"Richard Winters." Spot gave her a gentle shake, annoyed by her squirming. "Which apartment?"

She stuck her tongue out at him and didn't answer. Spot lifted an eyebrow and bent even closer. "Which apartment?" His grip on her arm tightened.

The girl squished her face up in a vivid portrait of dislike and pointed down the hall. "On the end." Spot let her go without another word and she disappeared down the stairs. He disliked children strongly. Even when he was a child he had disliked children.

When he knocked on the door there was no response and Spot frowned, heart sinking into his stomach. He pressed his ear to the door and knocked again. Still no answer. Spot sighed as he reached into his pocket for something to pick the lock with, but he tried the knob at the same time and it turned easily. He sighed heavily and pushed the door open. Winters' name was on his lips but as he stepped into the apartment it was obvious that there was no need to call for the man.

The blood hadn't dried completely and was pooled in a gooey mess on the carpet around Winters' body. He was flat on his back, arms spread wide like he was waiting for an embrace. Spot stepped closer and nudged the body with the toe of his boot. There was a buzzing noise and Spot stepped back quickly as a mess of flies rose up from Winters' side. The young man stared blankly at Winters' empty face for a moment before continuing on into the apartment.

The kitchen was empty but there were bloody footprints leading into the room beyond that. The door creaked as he nudged it open. Grey light filtered over the large bed that took up most of the floor space. The quilt that covered it was bright and obviously well loved, worn threadbare in places.

"Shit." Spot didn't step any farther into the room. He didn't need to see anymore. He turned quickly and didn't look at Winters' body as he fled to the tenement hall. He didn't like that Shon had killed Richard Winters, but he understood it. What made the bile rise in the back of his throat were the bodies of Richard's wife and daughter, left curled on the quilt in the bedroom.

* * *

"He's staying in the lodging house," Kill said, watching as Spot downed the rest of his beer. His friend hadn't spoken the whole time they'd been eating lunch in the blessed warmth of Gritty's. There was something subdued about Spot's expression that Kill couldn't place, but he knew better than to ask. Instead, he filled him in on what he'd learned from Hollis earlier that morning. He hadn't gotten to the part about Jack yet.

"Boots was with him," Kill said after a pause. That caught Spot's attention. He looked at the blond over the rim of his glass and set it down slowly.

"What was he doing with Boots?" Spot knew the young newsie fairly well as Boots had lived in Brooklyn for a time before moving to Manhattan.

"Hollis said his brother lives in Manhattan." Kill folded his arms on the table and shifted in his seat. The bar was mostly empty, except for James behind the counter, but they spoke in low tones anyway. Neither Kill nor Spot were particularly loud people. "He used to sell there. Talked about _Jack_." Kill's eyebrow went up as he said the name, emphasizing the unspoken message there. Jack Kelly meant trouble.

Spot reacted as Kill expected, fingers tightening around the glass and gaze darkening. "What'd he say about cowboy?"

"Jack's been talking Spot," Kill replied apologetically. "That shit about hurting people, about doing what's right? All that? Most of it was from his brother I think, but Jack's been saying it too."

Kill could literally see the anger build behind his friend's eyes, although the mask Spot usually wore didn't budge. Kill often marveled at Spot's ability to completely hide whatever it was he was feeling. He didn't think the Brooklyn leader had been born that way, however. He'd learned it.

"I think we need to pay Manhattan a little visit Kill." Spot pushed away from the table and set a few coins next to his plate. James would often insist that Spot eat for free, but he never complied. "I don't like how this is going down." He hadn't mentioned the dead family he'd found before meeting Kill and he didn't plan on it. It was something he needed to think about more before divulging any theories. It didn't make sense that Shon would murder the whole family if the man had simply tried to steal a ballot, it just wasn't done. Something else was behind it, some other motivation.

Kill nodded once and stood as well, paying for his own lunch. "I think you're probably right."

* * *

Tibby's restaurant was loud and noisy when Kill pushed the door open and stepped inside. Spot followed him and watched as the boys who had looked up when the door opened began nudging their friends. He wasn't particularly used to this sort of attention, but he was in Manhattan, a place where the stories of his temper were even worse than in Brooklyn. Of course, the Manhattan newsies also knew why they had fallen out of Spot Conlon's favor. It was no secret how he felt about consolidation.

"Spot!" A drawling voice called out over the quieting noise. Spot smiled as the one person in all of Manhattan who he didn't hate strode toward him. He and Racetrack Higgins shook hands enthusiastically and the cloud of anger cleared from Spot's face for a brief moment.

"What you doing here Conlon?" Race asked as he clapped Kill on the shoulder. He had to reach up to do so. The blond had an easy foot and a half on the small Italian.

Kill cleared his throat pointedly and Race sighed. The easy smile faded from Spot's mouth. He nodded. "Yeah, you know it. Where is he?"

"Not here." Race spread his hands and looked apologetic. "If I knew I'd tell you, but I haven't seen him today. He's still sellin' with Les these days. Davey went back to school."

"Hey, Race!" A boy Spot didn't recognize advanced on the trio from the side where he'd been sitting with a few other newsies. His dirty blond hair was cut short to his head and his face was eager and open. Spot lifted an eyebrow. This boy was older than him, but wore his emotions on his face like a child.

"Race, this is him?" The boy gestured to Spot and the Brooklynite gave a scoff of surprise. He was not used to being referred to as such. He was addressed directly, or not at all.

Race gave another sigh and set a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Spot, this is Jensen. He's been…askin' about you for a while now. Nothing bad like, before you get all in a fuss." He held up an open palm as Spot began to protest anyone asking questions about him. "You always were a suspicious boy Spot," Race said, grinning, "but ease off ok? The kid is…well he's green."

Spot could understand referring to Jensen as a kid, even if he was both his and Race's senior, as far as he could tell. He looked like some one who needed some guidance on how things were run in New York.

"Green, huh?" He crossed his arms over his chest as he sat at the nearest table. "Well? What kind of questions you got Jensen…" Kill sat as well and after glancing at Race, who nodded, Jensen mimicked them.

"Cabot." He filled in the blank Spot had left. "Jensen Cabot. I'm uh…" He licked his lips and Spot had to appreciate that he at least had the sense to be nervous. "Me and my brother, we moved to New York about a year ago. We lived in Connecticut before that, with our parents but they died of pneumonia."

"Hollis," Spot said, interrupting him. He pointed an accusing finger at Jensen who looked taken aback. He'd recognized the blatant naiveté on Jensen's face. He'd seen it in Hollis as well. "You're Hollis' brother ain'tcha?"

"How do you know Hollis?" Jensen frowned, but Spot didn't know if it was upset at having his story cut off or because of his younger brother getting into trouble.

"Well it's why we're here, ain't it Kill?" Spot looked up at his friend who hid a grin, badly, and nodded. Kill looked very pleased when Jensen swallowed hard at hearing the nickname. "Your little brother interrupted _my _dinner, in _my _house, in _my _city." Spot folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. Jensen leaned back in his chair as if trying to escape Spot's angry gaze. "Wanted to know why we was _hurting _people. You know why he would think we was doing anything like that?"

"We uh…" Jensen looked at Race anxiously. The Italian didn't offer him any comfort. Race was very much a "you're on your own pal" kinda guy. "We lived on a farm in Connecticut. Hollis doesn't really know how things work." Jensen smiled sheepishly but it wavered on his lips when neither Spot nor Kill looked amused.

"It doesn't much sound like _you _know how things work Cabot," Spot said after a short silence. "See, we heard you've been talkin' to Kelly about how I run things. If you got something to say to me then just fuckin' say it. I don't need you yapping your mouth off with goddamn Cowboy. Got it?"

"I wasn't saying anything." Jensen put up his hands, eyes wide. "I used to sell in Brooklyn, for a couple months. I liked it, better than Manhattan anyway, but when I tried to vote..."

"You tried to _vote_?" Kill asked suddenly before bursting into laughter. Spot rubbed a hand over his mouth as Kill regained control of himself.

Jensen was frowning. Spot coughed through a laugh, infected by Kill's hilarity, although he found little about the situation funny.

"It's my right, isn't it?" Jensen said stoutly. "I registered as soon as we moved here to stay with my aunt. My dad used to say that if a man did nothing else, he should still vo-…"

"Hey!" Spot brought his fist down on the table. "You're in way over your head and you ain't even out of the shallows, kid. Just take fact as fact and stop messing with shit like city elections alright? I can promise it _ain't_ worth it."

"But it isn't _right_." Jensen's eyes were suddenly blazing. He half stood, hands flat on the table. Spot sat back, eyebrows raised incredulously. Kill glanced at his friend but didn't move to shut the young man up, not yet.

"I don't care what's fuckin' right, Cabot," Spot said slowly. "Who are you, Teddy Roosevelt?"

"I'm an American." Jensen lifted his chin and stared down at both boys over his nose. Next to him, Race groaned and covered his eyes with one hand. Kill's jaw dropped.

Spot had Jensen by the front of his shirt before the older boy could blink. He gave him a good shake, getting a surprised noise out of him, and spoke through gritted teeth. "Yeah? Well I'm a fuckin' Mick so keep your nose out of the elections and your kid brother out of my city." He shoved Jensen back hard enough into his chair that he rocked back dangerously. Race caught his shoulder and steadied him. Behind Spot and Kill the door to the restaurant opened with a jingle of the bell. Both Jensen and Race looked to whoever it was.

"What's the trouble?" Jack sounded almost amused as he surveyed the scene. Most everyone else in the room had been watching the confrontation as well and now that Jack had arrived, the place was silent.

Spot's head dropped for a moment before he turned. Kill remained where he was, but pulled his hands from his pockets and straightened. "Lots of trouble Kelly," Spot said evenly. "If you got problems with me I recommend you pay a visit yourself. You're gonna get this guy and his brother killed." He gestured behind him to Jensen and heard him make another startled noise. Spot closed his eyes for a moment and tried to regain his patience. If Jensen didn't get it through his head that this was something Shon would have no problem killing him for, then he was a goner.

"All I said Spot," Jack put his hands up and had the foresight to let the smile fade from his face, "was that since the strike, you've been runnin' with a different crowd. That's all." Jack wasn't stupid, far from it. He could see when his former friend was gunning for a fight and it was written clear on Spot's face.

"Kelly." Spot's jaw clenched and he closed his eyes in frustration, head cocking to the side. Kill stood finally and those around them took a big step back. Chairs scraped the floor as their occupants scooted back as well. "If I hear you talking about how I run my city again," he didn't open his eyes, as though looking at Jack would just be too much, "I will beat you within an inch of your life."

He didn't allow Jack to answer, knowing it would be the regular smart ass one liner that would earn the Manhattan newsie a black eye. Spot wouldn't mind punching the cocky young man, but didn't want to get too far into it yet. It was looking more and more, as he began to stir recent events around in his mind, that Kill was right. Trouble was coming. And if trouble was coming, Spot thought grudgingly as he and Kill stepped out into the cold night air, he would need Jack Kelly willing to help him.

The door slammed shut behind the two and Race sent Jensen an annoyed glance. "'I'm an American'? You fuckin' idiot."


	6. Alliances

Mary's jaw ached where she had it clamped shut. Her breath was quick through her nose and she closed her eyes for a moment as she tried to regain composure. It wasn't quick to return. The voices around the corner were generally subdued but every so often a man would call out in the same panicked voice. She could never make out what he was saying. She couldn't imagine he was saying anything at all. He wasn't calling out for help. Those cries had stopped at least ten minutes ago.

The man in question let out a whimper that echoed in the light deprived alley and Mary clutched at her basket of laundry. She'd been stuck, back pressed against the brick, waiting for the men to leave, for almost half an hour. The sky had been darkening by the time she'd left the laundress' but it was full blown night now. It was night, she was alone, and she was quite sure that there was a man being murdered in the alley around the corner.

She didn't dare move or try to sneak by the opening. They would see her, hear the crunch of her feet on the snow, and then she would be done for. The sort of men who would torture another human being in an alley for half an hour would not hesitate at killing any witnesses.Her legs ached from a combination of the cold and lack of movement. If she hadn't thought to grab a pair of Shon's mittens before she left the apartment she might have been frost bitten by now, but the wool around her fingers at least saved her from that hardship. Mary winced violently as the man being tortured gave a horrible, strangled cry before falling completely silent. There was no sound and then the murmuring voices started again. The remaining men conferring over what to do with the body, she imagined, feeling frightened tears sting her eyes. Mary choked down a sob that threatened her silence and swallowed hard a few times. She just needed to get home and tell Shon. He would take care of it all. He would make sure she was safe.

Suddenly there was the sound of heavy feet on snow and Mary tensed, edging farther down the wall until she was completely hidden from the street lamps that cast shadows on the brick. She put a hand to her mouth, the mitten muffling a startled noise as the distinct sound of something being dragged followed the foot steps. Mary all but melted into the brick in her attempt to remain unseen. The voices were clearer now and to her horror, there was laughter.

"Squealin' 'bout Rome," one said amidst chuckles. "Rome'll do this! Rome'll do that! What the fuck could Rome do? As though the Ráibéad can do anything about this."

"Shut up Charlie." Another voice joined the chuckles but this one was sterner, without amusement. "Boss Tweed says Rome is still a problem, so don't you go talkin' your mouth off." The Irish accent drifted around the corner to Mary and her heart froze in her chest, a sudden hand squeezing it until she thought she might burst. She could see them now and the red scruffy hair matched the voice she'd recognized.

Two men hoisted a body between them and Shon McCrae gave it a good kick. He spat at the dead man before following his comrades down the empty street. "What a mess."

"You sure he's dead Shon?" The other man spoke, solemn now at McCrae's reprimand.

Shon laughed bitterly and Mary could barely recognize her husband for the change in his demeanor as the group passed under the lamp. She could see the front of his shirt stained dark with the same substance that covered his hands and her stomach heaved violently. She kept her mittened hand clapped over her mouth in an effort to control both screams and vomit. Shon was wiping a knife off on his pants as they walked. Their backs were to her now and they had nearly reached the corner. Mary figured they would dump the body in the river and she would have about an hour to get home before Shon did. Would he clean up before he did so, she wondered. Or would he not bother? Would he try to pass it off as his own blood? Say he got in a fight? Mary realized, as Shon and the others disappeared behind a building, that she had no idea who she had married.

The woman sank to the ground with a stifled sob, finally allowing herself to make a noise. It was a long time before she stopped her shaking and forced herself to make the journey home.

* * *

When Spot emerged from the apartment he shared with Kill, sunlight was filtering through the dirty windows of Gritty's. James was already behind the bar, cleaning, and the young woman he employed as a barmaid was wiping down the tables in preparation for opening. James set a mug of black coffee in front of Spot as he sat at the bar, rubbing at his eyes.

"A girl was in here 'bout an hour ago," James said suddenly as he wiped glasses. Spot looked up in confusion. Normally the bar didn't open until noon. "She whaled on the door until I answered." James shrugged. "Says she needs to talk with you bad."

"You catch a name?" Spot said into the mug. The steam eased the aching of his tired eyes and he closed them for a moment.

"Mary somethin'," James said shrugging. Spot rolled his eyes and gave the man a gentle slap upside the head. There were probably ten thousand Mary's in the city of New York.

"McCrae, Spot," the barmaid, Elise, spoke from the back of the room and he looked over his shoulder at her. "It was Shon's wife."

Spot turned on the stool fully and leaned back against the bar, coffee still held in front of him. "You sure?" He was fond of Elise. Most of the boys who came in here saw her as a younger sister, but she was beginning to grow up. She nodded once and went back to wiping at the tables. She had never been one for talking much.

"I told her you wasn't up yet," James volunteered as Spot went back to brooding over the mug. He spread his hands flat on the wood of the bar and leaned into the young man conspiratorially. "She was real scared, Spot."

"Yeah well with a husband like that…" Spot scoffed and finished the coffee. As he gestured to James for another there was a loud knock on the front door and the three occupants of the pub turned to look.

"Jesus…" Spot muttered under his breath as he pushed off the stool and went to the door. It was Mary and she did look scared. The bags under her eyes were prominent, and her eyes themselves red, as though she'd been crying for hours on end. When Spot opened the door and stepped aside so she could enter, he could see her fingers wrapped around the ends of the shawl she'd pulled around her, knuckles white with the effort.

"I…" She started and looked between James and Elise, who'd stopped their work to stare at her in surprise. "I need to talk to you," Mary said quietly to Spot who nodded.

"It can be said in front of these two, they ain't gonna rat you out." Spot sat at one of the tables and pointed to the chair across from him commandingly. "What'd you do?"

Mary sat but looked a bit taken aback at the question. "I didn't do anything. I saw something."

She could see Spot literally perk up at that. He leaned forward on the table, arms folded, and nodded for her to go on. "I was walking home last night," Mary started nervously, still watching both James and Elise, who were both pointedly looking anywhere but the pair, but obviously listening as they worked. "I was walking home and I was about to go around the corner of Tillary and Adams, you know that alley next to Zarro's?"

Spot nodded again without speaking, but smiled when both James and Elise nodded as well. Mary hesitated but Spot lifted his eyebrow at her. He'd never been a particularly patient person, but was willing to give her a break simply because she seemed so terrified.

"Well that alley, I was about to go by it when I heard something. Someone screaming." She was wringing her hands on the table in front of her and Spot frowned. So she heard some one getting mugged, or maybe even murdered, but why would she come to him? Before he could ask the question, Mary continued, her story picking up speed as she went.

"So I froze cuz I was scared if they saw me, they'd kill me to. I stayed there for almost thirty minutes, I swear. They were _torturing_ a man." Mary swallowed hard and Spot could see now, from the gleaming wetness of her eyes that she _had _been crying for hours on end. The girl must be new to Brooklyn, he decided, if she was this affected by a simple murder. "So I waited and finally they just killed him, put the poor man out of his misery. And they came out of the alley and around the corner. I thought they was going to see me, but they didn't." She paused for a long moment now and Spot let out a short huff of air.

"Look…Ms. McCrae. I'm sorry you had to see somethin' like that, but what do you want me t-…"

She cut him off with a violently disgusted noise and the fear seemed to compound on her face. "_Don't _call me that," she stuttered. "It was Shon, Spot; Shon came out of the alley with two other men. They was dragging the body between them."

Spot sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. This was something different. He was not in the least surprised to hear that Shon had killed another man, but dealing with his distressed wife could be tricky. He was still unsure why Mary had come to him, but was guessing that she was new in town and didn't have anyone else to ask for help. Spot was usually the one Brooklyn families went to when they were having trouble with local disruptions. He was, after all, their closest connection to Tammany Hall and the Dead Rabbits.

"Mary," he said slowly, trying to keep his voice easy, as though he were bringing down a frightened horse from panic. His hand slid over her shaking one as it lay clenched on the table and he ducked his head as he tried to meet her downward cast eyes. "I'm _sorry _you had to see that. Sometimes things have to be done Mary; sometimes men deserve what they get. Do you understand? I'm sure Shon had some reason. You should just forget about it."

"Forget about it?" Mary looked at him wide eyed and Elise coughed lightly from her place in the corner. Mary glanced at her, but was apparently too shocked by Spot's suggestion to understand that the girl was telling her to just accept it.

"It doesn't have any _meaning _Mary," Spot urged, shaking his head. If he could get Shon's wife to forget that she'd seen him murder a man, then Shon would owe him a huge debt.

"Of course it has meaning. My husband killed a man!" As soon as the words escaped Mary pulled her hand from Spot's and clapped it over her mouth, looking horrified.

Spot sighed. "Alright, alright." If he could just get her to _breathe _then maybe he could convince her it wasn't something to worry about. "Did you _hear_ anything? Did they say anything strange? Did you recognize the man?"

She shook her head, swallowing a few times before she regained control of herself and let her hand drop. "No I didn't see him, but…" She furrowed her brow in what Spot assumed was thought. "When they were walking by me they said something about Rome."

Spot's eyes snapped to her face and he latched onto her hand, pulling her closer to him across the table. Mary's breath left her again in a soft sound of surprise but she didn't pull at his grip. "Rome?"

"You know," she said in a shaking voice, "Where the Pope lives? And something else, a strange sounding word. Like rabbit or…it was like rabbit but it sounded…"

"Ráibéad," Spot said menacingly. He released her and she sat back heavily, rubbing at her hand where he'd gripped her too tightly. "Mary, I need you to tell me exactly what they said."

"Spot, what's going on? Is my husband in danger?" She was imploring him to explain, but could see that her pleas were falling on deaf ears and blind eyes. Spot was already wrapped up in this new trouble she'd brought him.

"_Everything_, Mary."

"Rome, they talked about Rome and how it couldn't do anything about this…"

"Not it, he. Rome is a man."

"And the rabbit…"

"Ráibéad."

"Yeah, that. How it couldn't do anything either. But then Shon told them to shut up…Charlie, Charlie was one of the men's names. He told Charlie to shut up because Rome was still a problem."

She watched as Spot's face hardened until it was an expression she'd only seen on some of the older men she'd passed on the Brooklyn streets; the ones with scars and legs sacrificed to the Civil War and the gang battles in the Bowrey. When she'd stepped into Gritty's looking for help, he had been a human being, but now he barely fit the bill. "Spot?" Mary leaned forward, but was unable to meet his gaze for very long. She'd never seen anger to the point of blankness before, never seen some one with a mask as complete as Spot's.

"Mary, I need you to do something for me." He got a mute nod in response. "You need to go home and act like you saw nothing." He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to protest. "If you want any help from me that's what you gotta do. If you see, or hear anything strange, any more mention of Rome or the Dead Rabbits, you need to come find me. Understand?"

"The Dead Rabbits?" She questioned as she stood, gathering her shawl back around her.

"The strange word you heard?" Spot rose as well and started to walk her to the door. "Ráibéad. It means 'man to be feared'. It's the same thing as the Dead Rabbits, you've heard of them right?"

Mary sent him a look and he put up both his hands in defense. "I'm just makin' sure. I ain't callin' you stupid."

"You'll help me." She stood in the door, one hand on her hip as she set him with an expectant glare. Spot paused before nodding and touching her cheek briefly. He hid a smile as surprise flickered across her face and noticed when she didn't pull away.

"If you do as I say, I'll make sure you stay safe." He met her eyes for one moment more before she turned and ventured back out into the cold. Spot turned to look at James who was equally upset at the news. "Looks like we got ourselves a traitor," Spot said as he started for his room. His morning ruined; he was going to wake up Kill. They were long overdue for a visit to Tammany Hall anyway.


	7. Revelations

Spot couldn't decide if he was shocked by the news of Shon's betrayal or not. The man had never shown any sort of loyalty to anyone. Spot had always known this about Shon, but this new transgression was brash. Going up against the Dead Rabbits and, in conjunction Tammany Hall, was not a plan of action that most would see as sane.

Kill had risen unwillingly when Spot had gone to wake him, but was eager enough now to get to Manhattan. If possible, Kill was more fiercely Irish than Spot and the thought of anyone targeting Dead Rabbits was enough to get his blood up. Besides Spot explaining what had happened, the long walk had been fairly silent. Both were working out scenarios in their heads. How had Shon snuck this by Tammany? What was his ultimate goal?

"He couldn't want complete control," Kill said suddenly, jumping into the conversation mid thought, as though he knew both he and Spot were thinking the same things.

"No, Shon wouldn't want that." Spot shook his head and dug his hands in his pockets as they reached the Brooklyn Bridge. "He must be working for some one. The Natives maybe?"

Kill made a disgusted sound, a mix between an imitation of vomiting and a scoff. Spot smiled at the reaction. Most in Brooklyn felt that way for the rival political party of the Dead Rabbits. The Natives weren't particularly popular in the borough and they kept their operations in Manhattan. Spot found it hard to believe that Shon would switch sides this drastically, but one never knew. He was an opportunist, not a loyalist. He would do what he thought would be most beneficial to him.

"I don't like to think it…" Spot started as their boots clunked on the wooden boardwalk of the bridge. Without fail a swell of pride started in his chest once his feet made contact with the wood. Despite the bridge being a constant reminder of consolidation it was also something Brooklynites considered their personal property.

After the snow storm, people had begun to flock the streets again so the boardwalk was mostly clear of snow. The going was quick, both young men walking quickly to ward off the cold. The sky was beginning to clear and occasionally shafts of sunlight would fall over the city, lighting it briefly before fading away again. The grime was already turning the snow that horrible brown. Spot dreaded the moment when the white was gone, when the snow was no longer beautiful, but instead a burden.

They neared the other end of the bridge, dodging women with large baskets of pitiful looking vegetables, men on their way to work, vendors and street rats like themselves. The acknowledging nods had ceased because these were residents of Manhattan and the majority did not know Spot from the next gangster they saw on the streets. In some ways, Spot liked it better, the anonymity. He enjoyed his status in Brooklyn, but would prefer to keep his face unrecognizable. He did not think power was worth large amounts of trouble.

Both he and Kill paused automatically before actually stepping off the bridge. Spot hadn't always felt so strongly about Manhattan. He had been eager to ally himself with Jack Kelly during the strike. He had liked the other boy. He was funny, clever and had a burning contempt for authority that Spot identified with. But then came consolidation. The Manhattan government and those in charge of Brooklyn at the time had decided that the best move for everyone would be to combine the two separate cities into one. Manhattan had been eager for the change. It would mean more revenue for them, and the city government would be headquartered in Manhattan. The people of Brooklyn hadn't been quite so excited, Spot in particular. It had created a deep divide between him and Jack that hadn't been approached since the consolidation had been made official a year before.

Manhattan sprawled out before Kill and Spot and they exchanged a look before stepping off the bridge and into the city. Tammany Hall was still a good half hour walk away.

--

Five Points was teeming with people and Spot was just glad it was not mid-July, when the stench of sewage, animals and rotting food was almost unbearable. Instead now it was just the masses of humanity they had to wade through. Five Points was a slum of the worst kind, decrepit and dangerous. The streets that converged there, hence the name, were chaos and it was rare that the law, the official law, ventured past its borders. It was the place where the rival political gains fought out their brawls. It was the no-man's land between the Dead Rabbits and the Natives. Brooklyn belonged to the Rabbits, the majority of Manhattan to the Natives, but Five Points was constantly changing hands. Spot was known there and Kill had lived there for a time. Neither returned often. It wasn't a place people went unless they had to.

To get to Tammany Hall they had to pass through Five Points. Spot didn't _dread _it exactly, but even after a life of living on the streets, going to Five Points was always a shock. The occupants always came out in swarms. It was sensible, since traveling through the neighborhood by yourself was foolish, but it had the effect of making the people seem like bugs, crawling and scurrying. Spot hated it.

"The Bowery boys are out," Kill said quietly as they began to cross the crowded square that was the crux of the neighborhood. The Bowery Boys were just another gang in the city. They'd had their moments of power, but they weren't as consistent as the Rabbits or the Natives, so they had never gained much political control.

Spot just chuckled quietly and tipped his hat to one of the large men they passed. He got a scowl in return. Spot's chuckle turned into a full blown laugh. Kill just smiled and shook his head. Spot rarely laughed out loud, Kill had noticed, but it was almost always at someone's expense.

In the midst of his laughter Spot's shoulder made contact with some one else's and he stumbled slightly, the humor dying quickly. He frowned and half turned to spit some curse over his shoulder, but couldn't when he saw who had run into him.

Billy Jennings had lost his arm at the shoulder when he was twenty. The then leader of the Dead Rabbits had taken it from him as punishment. No one knew exactly what it was Billy Jennings had done, but it must have been bad. In place of flesh there was wood, solid, hard wood, which, Spot realized as he rubbed his shoulder, was why the knock had hurt so badly.

Billy Jennings was the sort of person who didn't have any friends. He had followers, many of them, but no friends. He was a spiteful, wicked sort of man. He had lit fire to cat's tails when he was a child, and threw rocks with deadly aim at pigeon's heads. Now he lit fire to the men who disobeyed him, and from what Spot had heard, enjoyed every minute of it.

Now, as both Kill and Spot turned fully to face him, he was grinning unnervingly. He was dark haired and pale faced, the sallow tint of his skin made even more defined because of the goatee he wore. It was by no accident that with his pointed beard and bushy eyebrows Billy Jennings looked like the devil.

"You got a problem, Jennings?" Spot spoke finally. His hands remained in his pockets and wrapped fingers around the small switchblade he kept there. Jennings liked to start fights, if only to keep his name on people's lips. He was well past thirty and built like a scarecrow. No one fought dirtier than Billy Jennings. He shoved nails through the bottom of his boots. No one fought fair on the streets, but Billy would pretend to lose and call truce, just so he could stab his opponent in the back.

"No problem, Conlon." His laugh was more of a cackle. Spot was quite sure the man was insane. "I was just going on my way. Things to see, people to visit, that sort of thing. Where are you boys headed?"

"Just going for a stroll, far as you're concerned." Spot tilted his chin up to look down his nose at the man, face still twisted in a sneer. There was something grotesque about this man, but it was nothing specific. It was more of a combination of things. His wooden arm, his yellow pointed teeth, or, when you got close enough, the dried blood under his fingernails. Of course, one never wanted to get that close.

"Oh, I thought maybe you were going to pay our Boss Tweed a visit." Billy shuffled sideways a little. Like a spider, Kill found himself thinking.

"Maybe." Spot pulled the knife half way out of his pocket, enough so that when he flicked it open he wouldn't stab his own leg. He hadn't liked how Billy had said that. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing, nothing." Billy held his dirty hands up defensively and shuffled again. It was as though he had some electric current running through him and he just couldn't keep still. He was never completely motionless at any point, always fidgeting or twitching. It made Spot anxious.

Spot rolled his eyes and turned to go. Kill mimicked him, but as they started off again Billy's crazed voice sounded after them.

"Say hello to Rome for me!"

Spot froze and started to turn around again. Kill stopped him with a hand on his arm, shaking his head. "He's just trying to get a reaction Spot," he said so Billy couldn't hear. "It ain't worth the fight."

Spot nodded but filed the encounter away for later. It was definitely a threat when the leader of the Natives said something like that about the leader of the Dead Rabbits. Billy had been at the forefront of the anti-immigration political gang for three years now and the Natives had never been so powerful. Billy was ruthless and had begun to eradicate any sort of Irish neighborhood in Manhattan. There hadn't been many in the first place, besides Five Points, but more than three blocks of Irish filled tenements had burned to the ground a month ago and everyone knew who was responsible. Of course, Spot thought as he and Kill made it to the other side of the square and out of the roiling mess of Five Points, even Billy Jennings didn't dare set foot in Brooklyn.

--

Tammany Hall, the building itself, was impressive. It stood on Wall Street and business men flocked around it, looking ridiculous in their stuffed shirts and top hats. Or least, so it seemed to Kill who rarely made the trip to the political center of New York.

Grecian columns rose above their head as they ascended the wide stone steps up to the doors and when they stepped inside their feet thumped on marble floors. The main hall had ceilings high enough to make Kill crane his neck back. Tall windows kept it brightly lit. Paintings of long dead men hung on the walls, but neither boy paid them any mind as they started toward the staircase at the end of the hall. Spot had been to see Boss Tweed a number of times; often enough so that he knew the man's secretary would recognize him.

Once they had gone up two flights and stood in the antechamber of Tweed's offices she saw them and did recognize Spot. She smiled lightly at them both as they approached her desk. Kill winked at her and she blushed demurely, touching a delicate hand to her red hair.

Spot shook his head and sent his friend a look, reminding him why they had come. "The Boss in?"

The young woman regained her professional air once more and nodded shortly. "He is, but he is in a meeting right now I'm afraid. He should be another hour or so. If you would like to wait here…" She gestured to the chairs that were placed against the far wall.

"Nah," Spot said, wrinkling his nose. Neither he nor Kill had the patience for that. "We'll come back in a couple hours. Tell him to expect us, yeah?"

The redhead nodded again and wrote a quick note down on the pad of paper in front of her. Spot doubted she did little more than take messages and look pretty. She couldn't have been older than twenty.

"So what?" Kill asked as they turned back down the hall, their footsteps echoing.

"We grab some food." Spot shrugged. "He'll be there and he'll want to hear what we have to say."

--

They'd had a bit of a walk to find a restaurant the both of them could afford. Spot's income was steady, but not particularly impressive. He mostly lived off his reputation anyway. Any diner in Brooklyn served him for free. He didn't need to pay for things, but Manhattan was different. He and Kill were returning to Tammany Hall, their stomachs full of tasteless chicken soup, but at least they were full.

The hallways were less populated as they made their way back to Tweed's offices. It was lunch hour now and the political machine could not run on empty stomachs. The two made it to the landing and were about to round the corner just before the doorway to the antechamber when both froze at the sound of a voice. It was that same crazed twang that had stopped them in Five Points earlier in the day and it made Spot's blood go ice cold in shock.

"It'll be taken care of Mr. Tweed." Billy Jennings was in mid-sentence as Spot and Kill pressed their backs to the wall and listened. "I'm just glad you're beginning to come around to the decent way of things, if you catch my meaning. All respect due, of course."

Tweed's voice was a rumbling baritone and he chuckled briefly. "It isn't a matter of decent Billy; it's a matter of control. I hope you understand that. I just need the most effect means of influencing my constituents."

"And Rome?" There was a twinge of something that sounded a bit like hate in Jennings' voice as he said the name.

"Rome will be dealt with eventually. I know you must hold quite the grudge Billy, for what his brother did to your arm, but you must be patient. He's still useful to me." There was the sound of footsteps on stone and the two eavesdropping young men began to edge toward the staircase. There was no way they could allow themselves to be found listening in on a conversation like this.

"Now Billy." There was the sound of a hand slapping a back and the footsteps paused for a moment. "If you have any more questions send word to Shon McCrae. He's a Mick, but you can trust him. For the time being anyway."

"Isn't that how it always is Boss?" Billy simpered. Both men laughed stiffly, as though this were all a formality. Spot knew that both men would just as easily put a knife in the back of the other as they would shake hands. There were more footsteps and Spot pointed to the stairs. Kill nodded and they hurried back the way they'd come. As they went he heard the secretary inform Tweed of their visit.

"Conlon huh?" Tweed's voice was fading, but Spot lingered two dangerous seconds to hear his reaction. "Send him in when he returns. He'll need to be dealt with." Spot didn't waste anymore time. There was no going back to Tammany Hall now.

By the time they'd reached the first floor they were running. It was instinct. What they'd just overheard was conspiracy at the highest levels they could imagine. Spot's head whirled as they ran, unable to immediately believe that Boss Tweed was betraying the Dead Rabbits. It was betrayal in the most extreme. Tammany Hall had been staunchly Irish since its formation and now they were pulling a complete about face. No proud Irishman, Spot thought angrily, would out to Billy Jennings and the Natives. Boss Tweed, Shon McCrae; they were both turn coats of the worst kind.

Spot probably would have kept running had Kill not grabbed his arm and spun him around. They were well away from Tammany Hall now, a few blocks up Wall Street, next to the Trinity Church. Spot allowed himself to catch his breath, one hand gripping the wrought iron fence that surrounded the Churchyard. He and Kill could only stare at each other, the weight of this new revelation hanging heavily on their shoulders. Without Tammany Hall backing them, the Dead Rabbits were everything but powerless. Boss Tweed would have set the Shon situation straight in a matter of hours, but they could now see that he was orchestrating it all.

Spot shook his head as he gained control of his breathing. The laugh that tore off his lips was anything but amused and at the sound Kill dragged his hand anxiously through his hair. The Brooklyn gang leader looked up at his oldest friend. Spot was at a complete loss as to what he could do, or even say. "Well goddamn," was all he could get out.


	8. Rome

There was not a sound coming from behind the apartment door the young men stood in front of. Spot was beginning to wonder if anyone was even home. Rome lived in Brooklyn, in Greenpoint. It was the Polish bastion in New York, but Rome was as Irish as they came. He said the Polish were cleaner than the Irish, and Rome had a thing about being clean.

Kill had knocked and now they waited, knowing not to knock again. Rome also had a thing with manners. It was odd, when Spot thought about it, that this impeccably clean, precise man ran a gang as virulent as the Dead Rabbits. But Rome did it, and he did it well. He'd inherited the role from his older brother, Aaron, and he was better at it. He had a knack for organization and planning. His mind was as sharp and manipulative as Spot's, if not more so. It would take a clever man indeed to double cross Rome McManus, but some how Boss Tweed had done it. Rome would not be pleased to hear the news.

The door swung open and a small raven haired girl stood in the hall, staring up at them with wide blue eyes.

"Hey Mara," Kill dropped into a crouch to address the little girl. "Is your Da in?"

She nodded silently and turned to disappear back into the large apartment. Rome and his family lived comfortably. Extortion was a lucrative business.

Both boys automatically bent to remove their boots before following Mara. The streets were wet and muddy and Rome's temper was notorious. Spot had little desire to spark that particular rage in the man again. It was unnecessary, and in Spot's opinion, rather annoying. He didn't understand the need to be absolutely clean all the time. He liked a little dirt on his hands.

"Who is it Mara?" Rome's voice came from the sitting room, but the little girl didn't answer, just pointed to the door where Kill and Spot were to go through.

Rome was dark haired, like his daughter, and of medium height. He was a slight man, built more like Spot than Kill, with narrow shoulders and hips. His hair was combed neatly in a part and his angular face was smooth and clean. His clothing was befitting the neat cut of his hair, perfectly creased and spotless.

"Spot." He turned from where he was speaking to a woman with thin brown hair. The sun coming through the window cast both of them in stark shadow, only half of their bodies in the light. Spot couldn't see clearly enough to be sure, but he thought he'd seen a black eye on the woman before she turned her head away. "Maggie, why don't you go fetch some coffee for Mr. Conlon and Mr. Kilpatrick."

The woman nodded as wordlessly as her daughter had and rose from where she was sitting on the windowsill. She passed Rome timidly and exited through a side door. Kill watched her go, one eyebrow raised. He'd never seen one woman so afraid of her husband before, and he'd met his share of wife beaters. He didn't think it was just the beating Maggie McManus was afraid of.

"Well, Spot?" Rome sat on the rigid couch that was settled against the wall between two large windows. "What brings you here unannounced?"

Spot looked down at him from where he'd been staring at the large gold crucifix that hung on the wall between the windows. The walls themselves were a dark red and the gold stood out brightly. The image of Jesus Christ on the cross had always unnerved Spot. When he was younger, living in the lodging house with the nuns, he had wondered how Jesus would have felt to see his dying, half naked body hanging on the walls of half the houses in the western world. The nuns had not found the thought quite as amusing as he.

It was how Rome had gotten his name, his faith. His given name was Conner, but he hadn't gone by that in years. For a while people had called him the Pope, because of his devotion to the religious figure, but, thinking the nickname blasphemous, Rome had decided that any man who called him the Pope would get his teeth kicked in. The nickname had died within a week.

"We got news, Rome," Spot said shoving his hands into his pockets. "It started with Shon McCrae. He killed a Rabbit last night."

He watched as the expression on Rome's faced changed from quiet disinterest to a more calculating look. Spot knew he was already planning Shon McCrae's death, something he'd probably wanted to do for a while. He didn't say anything in response so Spot continued.

"Kill and I, we went to Tammany this morning to tell Tweed about it, but you'll never believe who he was meetin' with."

Rome nodded for him to go on and Spot set him with a gaze that made it clear he hadn't seen this coming either. "Billy Jennings."

The air in the room seemed to go still. Rome spent a long minute just staring at Spot as if he had just told him the moon was falling toward the Earth.

"What?"

"Billy Jennings, Rome. I swear to G-…" He stopped himself before saying God. "I swear on my mother's grave Rome. They was in a meeting when we got there. We left to grab some lunch and when we came back Billy was just leaving."

"Did they see you?"

Spot shook his head. "Nah, we left before they came around the corner."

"Did you hear anything?" Rome had folded his hands in his lap, but was still staring at Spot intently. Spot met his gaze. He respected Rome's power and his danger, but he wasn't afraid of him.

"They said exactly what you're thinking, Rome." Spot sounded almost apologetic and he spread his hands as he shrugged. "I'm sorry too, but Tammany Hall ain't backin' the Rabbits no more."

"We'll just have to make things right again then, won't we?" Rome spoke after a long silence. He remained unmoving from his place on the couch even as Maggie re-entered with a wobbling tray of coffee. "Spot. I want you to go to Manhattan."

Spot's eyebrows shot up and his apologetic stance disappeared. "You do, do you? Why?"

"You're going to reconcile with Jack Kelly."

"The hell I am."

"Then I guess you'll be fine with the Natives invading Brooklyn and killing your people." Rome looked up at him again and his eyes were cold.

Spot glanced at Kill before closing his own eyes and trying to clear the fury from them. This was not something he had ever planned on doing, but he had to admit that Rome was right. If they wanted to have any chance against the Natives now, they had to have the hence far neutral Manhattan newsies on their side. To do that, Spot had to play nice with Jack Kelly.

His lip curled in a snarl at the thought, but he turned on his heel without another word, knowing Rome would recognize Spot's reluctant agreement.

"I swear," Spot said as he and Kill reached the door and began to put their shoes back on, "I could _hear _him smirk."

Kill smiled wryly and shook his head. "I can go to Manhattan Spot," he offered quietly.

"No. I need to go." Spot knew if he just sent someone then Jack would never take the reconciliation seriously. He knew Jack had wanted to make things better for some time, but also knew he wasn't interested in compromising his own position. "Go and get it over with."

Kill nodded and followed him out the door. Spot paused in the stairwell, stopping Kill with a hand on his chest. "You ever think that maybe we…" His words faded off and Kill looked at him expectantly.

"Yeah? What?"

"Nothing…" Spot began to walk again and there was another moment of silence before he spoke again. "Sometimes I just get the feeling that maybe we ain't workin' for the good guys."

* * *

Jack Kelly still slept in the Manhattan Newsboy's Lodging House. He didn't understand why he should pay a rent, when the lodging house was so much cheaper. Besides, he was the proprietor in everything but name now. Kloppman, the old man who owned the Lodging House, was spending more and more days home and three months ago he'd begun to pay Jack a regular salary. It worked nicely for Jack and the other boys had voiced no protests. It had always been assumed that Jack would take over and once he had decided that running off to Santa Fe wasn't for him, the transition was seamless.

The three young men were sitting in Kloppman's office, the small back room behind the large desk in the front hall. Jack leaned back in his chair as he processed the story Spot had just told him. The whole situation made him distinctly nervous. Jack was used to quelling the small disputes between the bickering gangs in Manhattan, but a feud between the Natives and the Dead Rabbits was always more akin to war than a street fight.

"If this ain't fixed soon," he said, breaking the long silence that hung around them like an incorporeal blanket, "then people are gonna die."

Spot sent him a sharp, incredulous look. Jack laughed softly and shifted forward again to rest his elbows on the table they sat around. Spot was one of those rare people who could make his sentiments clear without saying a word. He was a master at it, Jack thought as he drummed his fingers on the wood. That had been an obvious "no shit" look.

"What do you think I can do about it, Spot?" Jack asked.

"On your own?" Spot shrugged, "nothing. But if we make Billy Jennings our common enemy then maybe something."

"Billy Jennings is no friend of mine, Conlon." Jack lifted his eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, but you ain't his enemy either." Spot crossed his arms over his chest and sent Kill a long suffering look that Jack didn't particularly appreciate. "I'm saying make Manhattan his enemy. Make your boys hate him. It shouldn't be too hard."

Jack rolled his eyes and sighed. "Alright, but what do I get in return, Spot? So far I can't see why Manhattan should care if it's the Natives or the Rabbits running the joint."

"I think you will care once Jennings starts to have his way. A lot of your boys still got families waiting to come over, right?" Jack nodded wordlessly and Spot looked satisfied. "Jennings'll make sure that never happens. He hates us Jack. He don't hate you, but he hates us."

"Hey, Jack?!" A bright voice came from the front hall, filtering through the door, and the three of them looked up. Kill saw Jack close his eyes tiredly for a moment before speaking.

"In here."

"Did you hear about what ha-…" Jensen literally bounced into the office before snapping his mouth shut once he saw who was sitting with Jack.

Spot burst into laughter at the anxiety on the other boy's face. He pushed to his feet, running a hand through his mess of hair. "Well if it isn't the American. This the kind of kid you have bringing you news these days Kelly? You sure you can trust him?"

Jack dragged a hand over his face as he answered. "Yeah, I can trust him. What happened Jensen?"

"A…" Jensen had a false start, still watching Spot and Kill, before he could get the news out. "A whole block of tenements in Little Italy went up. They're saying a family is trapped inside."

Spot looked over his shoulder at Jack, eyebrows raised. "See? I can promise you from here on out immigrants are going to be getting it in Manhattan. As long as Jennings has Tammany behind him, he can do whatever he wants."

Jack stood as well, brow furrowed. He nodded in agreement. "Alright, Spot. I'll help you. You keep me filled in though…"

"Yeah, yeah. I owe you one." Spot offered his hand to Jack who took it, looking a little surprised. "Thanks Kelly. I won't forget it."

"Damn right you won't." Jack flashed him a smile. Spot returned it before he and Kill turned to go.

"How's the brother Mr. America," Spot asked Jensen, pausing on his way out.

"Only talks about you." There was no small amount of bitterness in Jensen's voice and it made Spot chuckle. "Are you actually going to do something right for a change?"

Spot's laughter faded and he flicked Jensen in the forehead, making him flinch away. "You watch yourself. You're too damn green to be mouthing off to some one who can hurt you." He prodded Jensen in the chest. "You're lucky I like your little brother. I'd end you."

"Spot," Jack said from behind them, "stop showing off."

"Fuck you Kelly." Spot sent one more warning lift of the eyebrows to Jensen, whose jaw was clenched in a tight line, before leaving.

Kill set a strong hand on Jensen's shoulder. "Keep an eye on your brother," he said quietly. "If he goes around blabbing his mouth off to the wrong people he could get hurt. Not everyone is as nice as Spot."

Jensen, recognizing a friendly warning when he heard one, nodded and stepped aside so Kill could pass him. The door clicked shut behind him and Jack made a frustrated noise. Jensen looked over at his friend.

"What's going on?"

Jack gave him a sociable shove as he passed him to leave the office. "Nothing to rally the troops over yet, Cabot. Just take it easy."


	9. Infidelity

Spot watched intently as Mary McCrae poked at her soup absent mindedly. This was their third meeting. He had been surprised at how helpful it had been. Initially he'd just been thinking that she would be able to help him keep Shon out of the way while they dealt with the real players, but it seemed as though Shon was just that. Since Spot's meeting with Rome, Shon had brought Billy Jennings into his very home. Mary had been quick to report on that. She, just like every other woman who met Jennings, was terrified of the man. She mentioned to Spot how Shon had been very careful not to leave her alone with Billy, something Spot had found himself grateful for.

However, the two of them were particularly quiet this morning. Mary would usually come into Gritty's and Spot would buy her something to eat while she talked. She had already kept two of Rome's men from having their throats slit and Spot was sure to inform Mary of this fact. He needed to keep her fear of her husband alive and well; otherwise she would start questioning her betrayal of him. Of course, Spot wasn't driving a wedge between the couple just because he needed the information, but he wasn't going to admit that.

Mary looked up and caught her watching him. She smiled shyly and ducked her eyes back to the soup. "I'm afraid there isn't much this time Spot. He's been quiet, pretty resigned. I thought for a moment he'd caught on, but then those men who were with him the first night," she was speaking of the night she'd heard Shon murder a Rabbit, "came over. They talked about Rome and what to do with him, but they didn't say anything new."

Spot just nodded, leaning forward on the table. Mary was pretty, he'd decided, although he couldn't place what exactly was pretty about her. She had nice eyes, a bright green that, when you got close enough, had brown dots in them, like freckles. Her teeth were a little too crooked and her face a little too pointed, but there was an odd exotic character to her features that had Spot studying her face whenever they met.

"And you're keeping out of trouble?" he asked quietly. The lunch rush had faded a few hours ago and they were nearly alone in the bar. Two men sat in the far corner near the door and they would laugh loudly every so often, but the only other sound was the clink of glass as James and Elise cleaned up.

Mary took a tentative sip of soup, her first in five minutes, and nodded. "I make sure to never be in the same room when he's discussing business. I figure if he can't remember me being in the room when he was talking about anything important, then he won't figure it out."

She was smart too. It was something Spot would have thought of, but he hadn't expected her to be so careful. She had been so disconnected from this kind of world before she'd seen Shon murder that man, but she was catching on quickly.

"Spot, is there something on my face?"

He was startled out of his thought and he stared blankly at her for a second before turning his head to glance out the window. Spot was embarrassed, which was a rare thing. Luckily he was good at hiding.

"Nah, sorry. I got distracted."

If he had been looking he would have seen Mary blush, but he wasn't. She was anything but oblivious to his attentions, but any pleasure she might have gotten from them was tinged with the poison of shame. She had been born and raised Catholic. This was exactly the sort of thing her mother would have smacked her for. Imagine, Mary McCrae, happily married woman having lunch with another man, and some one like Spot Conlon at that.

Not that Shon was any better, she thought. A stab of sorrow made her wince and Mary heaved a sigh at the reminder of her husband's sins. It was more that she had no idea who he really was than his actual discretions. If she had been sure that Shon was the man she'd thought she'd married, then she would have just confronted him, but she wasn't sure, so she had run to Spot.

She watched him as he stared pointedly out the window and had to appreciate the cut of his jaw. Mary wasn't sure if his allure was in his physical looks or his reputation; maybe both. Either way, she'd had an extremely shameful dream the night before and had spent the entire morning in church, reciting Hail Mary's.

"You gotta be real careful Mary," Spot said suddenly, pulling her from her thoughts.

"I know." She nodded and set her spoon down. She wasn't going to finish her soup. Her appetite wasn't what it used to be.

"You wanna walk for a minute?"

The question surprised her and she nodded before she thought about what being alone with Spot might mean. They both stood and Spot left a few coins on the table. James looked up as the pair started for the door and he did a bad job of hiding his knowing smile. Spot sent him a sharp look as he opened the door for Mary, and James returned his eyes to the glass he was polishing.

The air was crisp, but warmer than it had been in weeks. The snow storm had chased away the more bitter weather, but had left everything feeling a bit damp. They could feel the moisture hanging in the air as they walked and it made Mary tug her shawl more securely around herself.

Spot led her on a route toward the river, preferring the fresher atmosphere that came off the water to the heavy stuff that passed as air when one was in the midst of the city. Mary watched her feet as they walked, not feeling as though she should start any sort of conversation. As with Shon, any silence that she and Spot shared was always comfortable. She found that similarity disconcerting and didn't like thinking that maybe there were other ways in which the two men were alike.

"You ever think of leaving him?" Spot asked without warning or context. Mary looked up at him and her eyes bit into his face so that he glanced at her uneasily. "I don't mean offense. I was just thinking out loud."

"I can't divorce him Spot," she said, straightening her shoulders and looking out in front of them resolutely. They were walking alongside the river now and Spot rolled his eyes unhappily toward the Manhattan skyline. He seemed to be gaining a habit of getting himself into situations he didn't like. First with Tammany and now all this with Mary. He was confused and it wasn't an emotion that sat well in his gut.

"He ain't safe Mary. I thought you knew that."

"And who is safe, Spot? You?" She scoffed and it got his attention.

Spot stopped walking and caught her arm, turning her so he could scrutinize her. "You scared of me?" He wasn't sure what he wanted to hear in response to that question. Yes or no would be equally pleasing.

Mary lifted her eyebrows at him and extracted herself from his grip. She was used to his galling questions by now and was always careful with her answers. Spot had proved to have a volatile temper. "Not scared." She shook her head. "Wary, maybe. I don't know if I trust you."

Spot paused before nodding approvingly. Yeah, she was definitely smart. "Do you trust anyone?"

Mary wrapped her arms around herself and stared past him. It was a long time before she answered and he didn't like the threat of tears in her voice when she did. "No."

His stomach lurched at the word and it was equal parts unhappiness at that fact and surprise at his own compassion toward her. Spot didn't do compassion often. "I'm sorry." The apology was clearly spoken. Spot wasn't inclined to mumble things, even if he didn't like what he was saying.

"Aren't we just full of surprises today?" She didn't much sound like she believed his sentiment to be sincere.

Mary started a little and her eyes flew to him as she felt a soft hand on her cheek.

"I am sorry."

She just gaped for a long moment, alarmed by the shift of expression in his grey eyes. He liked her, she realized, which was more momentous than he finding her attractive.

"Spot Conlon, if you think that apologizing to me will somehow make me fall into your arms." She was angry and she wasn't quite sure why. She ducked away from his hand and watched as the softness fled his eyes.

"You couldn't just say thanks and leave it at that? Jesus." He rolled his eyes and turned to continue down the street. He knew why she was angry and was perfectly willing to point it out to her if she wanted to take it that far.

"Why should I say thank you? You don't mean it." She didn't follow him as he walked. Mary was swallowing against tears. She hadn't really cried yet, not really. She hadn't allowed herself to.

Spot looked over his shoulder at her and his lip was curled in a smile. "Why should I be apologizing? I ain't the one who lied to you. Your husband is the murderer Mary, go scold him, not me."

"You're saying you're not the same as him?" Mary's hand curled into a fist at her side and she glared at him, eyes wet. "The great Spot Conlon never killed a man?"

Spot turned on his heel to face her and she took a step back. He wasn't scornful anymore, he was angry. "I never _murdered _a man."

"I guess you think there's a difference." Mary almost laughed at his absurd reasoning. "Just because betrayal wasn't involved you think that taking someone's life isn't the same as what Shon did?"

Spot gritted his teeth and returned the glare with venom. "Look, I'm trying to help you. I ain't saying I'm better than anyone or less sinful or whatever it is you've got in your head." He put his hands up, palms open, in defense.

"That doesn't make you any less sly!" Mary had lost her temper and he could see her tears now. They had already begun to wet her cheeks. "You're a fox, Spot Conlon! You think only of yourself and how to save yourself. You don't care about _anything_!"

"I care about this city!" He grabbed her by both arms and gave her a shake. His voice had risen in volume, something it almost never did. "I care about Brooklyn. I care about my people!"

"Your people." Mary leaned back from him, still in his grip, and her lip curled. "And who are your _people…_"

The word was cut off in a squeak as Spot covered her mouth with his in a furious kiss. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides and he could feel her rigid with tension. He could feel her hesitance. He noticed how she shook just barely, but he also noticed how she had stopped leaning away from him. It was as though every part of her body but her lips wanted away from him. It was a brief, if a little rough, embrace. Spot was the one to break it. He dropped his hands from her arms and stepped back. Their frozen breath mingled in the air that was now between them. The silence was long and heavy with intentions neither were confident enough to act on.

"I'll be back in two days," Mary said. The opportunity for something else to happen was gone with her words and Spot swore inwardly. He should have known it would just scare her off. He watched without responding as she turned on her heel and all but ran up the street.


	10. Kill

The light cutting across Kill's face was a vivid blue, stained by the glass of the window. Spot stood just behind his friend as he knelt in front of the large church alter. Spot had never been an avid church go-er, but Kill went every Sunday. Kill was silent, but his head was bowed and his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Spot never asked what he prayed for, but some times he wondered if Kill was praying for both their souls.

Kill touched his hand to his lips and then to his forehead before crossing himself. "In nomeni patri," he whispered, "et fili spiritus sancti." He stood as he spoke and turned to Spot, expectant. Spot was smiling at him.

"You know any Latin besides that?" He didn't miss a chance to tease Kill whenever it came to his faith. Maybe it was callous of him, but it took a lot to ruffle Kill's feathers and as usual, Spot's comment rolled off his back like water.

"Another dead Rabbit found last night," Kill said, changing the subject as they walked down the aisle. Their pace was slow. Neither was in a rush, despite the news.

"You mean dead as in dead," Spot asked.

Kill snorted in laughter and nodded. "Yeah I mean dead as in dead."

"Just making sure. Wouldn't really be news otherwise, would it?"

Kill raised an eyebrow at Spot. Normally Spot didn't crack that many jokes in a row. "Something's got you in a good mood."

Spot shrugged, but the smile that curled the corner of his lips betrayed his air of nonchalance. "We got him on the ropes, Kill, that's all. Shon and Jennings. Even Tweed is feeling it. Can't you tell?"

Kill let his hand trail over the tops of the pews as they strolled. The wood was smooth under his palm and he turned his face up to stare at the arching ceilings. He'd been coming to this church since he'd first come to Brooklyn. It was the largest in the borough, and the most catholic. He liked it that way. "Yeah I can tell. I was up at Five Points the other day. They'd got their hands on some of Jennings' boys. Strung them up good."

Spot's smile grew wider and he paused. They were closer to the back of the church now. He leaned against the side of a pew and crossed his arms over his chest. "On the ropes. When we take care of Shon tomorrow night it should send a message to Jennings. If he runs then Tweed is all on his own. He won't have anyone to support him anymore." He grinned like a cat who'd eaten the canary at that thought.

"Rome told you to do it tomorrow?" Kill remained standing as he faced Spot.

"Yeah. He doesn't know he's been made yet. Getting him to the piers shouldn't be a problem. Mary said he's been planning to contact me soon anyways."

Kill nodded, sage-like at the mention of Mary. "You seen her since your last meeting?"

Spot's scoff was humorless, more a bark than a laugh. "I think I scared her out of her mind, or she scared herself. I don't know which. I can't figure why she married the man in the first place."

"He ain't bad to her," Kill interjected. "You seen them together. He treats her right."

"I guess. Either way he dies tomorrow night."

Kill winced and gestured for them to leave. "Not so loud alright? We are in a church."

Spot laughed again as they passed the last row of pews and stepped into the sunlit doorway. "God might be listening, right?"

Kill punched him in the arm and neither boy saw a pale faced Mary McCrae scoot out from the back row of pews. She'd been there when they'd come in, but had stayed silent and hidden in the shadow of the staircase that led up to the choir loft. She stood in the doorway and watched them make their way down the stone steps to the street, her hand clenched tightly around the hem of her shawl.

--

Mary gave a panicked cry as a vase shattered against the far wall of the apartment. She was curled in the corner, back pressed into the wall. Shon stormed back and forth in front of her, methodically destroying everything easily breakable in their home. The plates from dinner were the first to go. The vase had been a wedding present from Mary's grandmother. She stared at the remnants scattered on the floor and hiccupped against frightened tears.

"You bitch!" Shon raged. "You lying bitch! Do you realize what you've done? You've ruined everything! Everything!"

"I'm sorry!" She shook her head furiously. Mary could barely recognize her own voice through the tears. "I panicked. I saw you kill that man and I didn't know what to do." She ventured a little ways away from the wall, tipping forward onto her hands and knees. She stared up at him, pleading. "But it's alright, isn't it? I told you. I heard what Spot said and I told you. Shon, _please_."

"Shut up!" Shon ignored her outstretched hand and slumped into a rickety chair. "God damn it, stop _crying_. I need to think!"

Mary clenched her mouth shut. She flattened herself into the corner again, wrapping her arms around her bent knees. Her heart was slamming in her chest, so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

"They know. They know _everything_." Shon was muttering to himself, hand buried in his hair. "What can I do? Does Tweed know? Tweed must know. God _damn _it."

"I'm sorry…" Mary tried again, but she didn't get a response. It appeared as though Shon didn't know she was there anymore. He rose jerkily from the chair and grabbed his jacket from a hook by the door. He was gone before Mary could utter another word and as the door clicked shut she burst into tears, burying her face in both hands.

--

Shon was going to make sure Spot was never a danger to him. He knew it could be done, but he wasn't quite sure how to do it. Shon wasn't arrogant, or stupid enough, to trick himself into thinking he could beat Spot in a fight. Besides, he would have to get by Kill before he could even touch Spot, and that was something Shon was sure no one could do.

He rubbed his hands over his thighs in an attempt to warm himself. It didn't work. He'd been sitting on the door step of the tenement across from Gritty's for close to forty minutes and Spot had yet to appear. Shon just needed to find some sort of weakness, a soft spot he could exploit. He was sure it existed. For a moment he had considered using Mary, after learning of Spot's affection for his wife Shon was sure he would take the bait, but even in his new, crazed state, Shon couldn't bring himself to hurt Mary like that. He was furious yes, but she was Mary.

The door to Gritty's opened for the hundredth time while he'd been sitting there, but this time Shon perked up. Spot was standing on the sidewalk, but he wasn't alone. A small blond boy was at Spot's side. From his vantage point, Shon couldn't hear the words being exchanged, but the younger boy was certainly animated. Spot looked peeved, but there was a certain amount of bemused affection on the Brooklyn leader's face. It gave Shon pause, an idea taking shape in his panicked mind.

The pair started across the street toward him and Shon stood quickly, stepping back into the shadowed doorway to avoid being seen. The boy was still yammering away at Spot, but for some reason he was being tolerated. Slowly, they came into earshot.

"It'll be amazing, Spot!" The boy seemed to bounce. "You and Jack, friends again. No one ever thought it would happen, but now it has and you guys'll be unstoppable. Unstoppable!"

"Yeah, yeah Hollis." Spot pushed the boy gently and Shon could see the faint hint of a smile behind the annoyance on Spot's face. "Let's just get you back to your brother alright? You shouldn't be wandering around alone."

"Can I come back though? To Brooklyn?"

They had passed Shon's doorway by now and he stepped forward a little to watch their backs as they started up the street.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. But don't leave Manhattan without Jensen alright? Don't be stupid."

"I won't. I promise…" The end of Hollis' sentence faded off as they turned the corner and Shon emerged completely. So Spot and Jack had reconciled. That was more bad news for him, although it seemed like a new avenue for controlling Spot had opened.

Shon now knew where he needed to go and who he needed to threaten if he wanted Spot Conlon off his back.

--

Snow was drifting by the window in Kill's small bedroom. He had been drifting in and out of sleep for a few hours, enjoying the unusual silence of Gritty's below. They had closed early because of the snow. Very few customers ventured out in weather this wet, even for alcohol. The warm body beside him shifted and Kill turned his head to look at the girl who was lying with her back to him. She was tangled in the blankets, long blond hair splayed around her head.

The peace of the bedroom was disturbed abruptly as the door opened. Kill looked over his shoulder to peer at Spot standing just inside the room. It was too dark to see his expression, but when he spoke Kill could hear his anger.

"Get up. We're going to Manhattan."

Kill began the process of dressing without hesitation, knowing he could ask as many questions as he wanted, so long as he was moving.

"Why?"

"Mary must have told Shon something." Spot crossed his arms as he waited, keeping his eyes on the snow caked window. "He grabbed Hollis right out from under Jack's nose. He says he's gonna kill the kid unless I come and talk to him. Fucking crazy."

Kill paused as he buttoned his shirt. Mary had spilled. That must have been the source of Spot's anger. Sure, he was worried about the kid, but nothing got to Spot more than a betrayal.

The girl in the bed stirred sleepily and sent Kill a bleary, questioning look. He put a finger to his lips and ducked to press a kiss to her forehead. "Go back to sleep, Molly. I'll be back."

That seemed to satisfy her because she rolled over without a word. Kill nodded to Spot and grabbed his jacket as they left.

"So what's the plan? You gonna talk him down?"

"No." Spot didn't look at Kill as he spoke, but he waited until his friend had pulled his jacket on before going out into the snow. "You're going to kill him."

--

When Spot reached the Manhattan Newsboy's Lodging House he couldn't see anyone on the street, but he heard the voices that echoed off the surrounding tenements. He picked up his pace a little, breaking into a slow jog in the general direction of where the voices were coming from. He neared the mouth of the alley that was neighboring to the Lodging House and slowed. The voices were distinct now. He paused before making his appearance, wanting to know just what was happening.

"Shon…" Jack's voice was the clearest, not clouded by fear or panic, or in Shon's case, madness. "I think it would be better for everyone if you just let Hollis go. He ain't a part of this."

"Shut up, Kelly." Shon's voice was venomous and Spot frowned. "Where the fuck is Conlon? I thought I said I wanted to talk to him."

"Easy." Spot spoke as he stepped around the corner so those in the alley could see him. Jack and Jensen both turned to look at him from where they stood in the opening to the alley. Shon was farther in, out of reach of the light from the street lamps, but Spot could still see a deathly pale Hollis trapped against Shon's chest with one strong arm and one very sharp knife. "Just take it easy, Shon."

"Decided to show your face, huh?" Shon grinned eerily at him. Spot couldn't help but frown in confusion. This was not the Shon he knew. Learning of Spot's plans must have completely unbalanced him. Perhaps Shon believed himself abandoned by Tammany, which could very well have been true. However, what it was exactly didn't matter, because Shon had clearly gone off the handle.

"Shon, I don't know who told you this would be a good plan, but I should let you know..." Spot shrugged his shoulders and gave him nonchalant look, "I really don't care if you kill the kid."

"Conlon!" Jensen cried out behind him and Spot looked over his shoulder to see Jack restraining Jensen from leaping forward.

"Spot," Jack said quietly, narrowing his eyes at him. It was a warning look, but Spot didn't seem to be bothered.

"It's the truth. The kid's a thorn in my side, to be honest with you." He spread his hands as he turned back to Shon. "No matter what you do, I'm going to get rid of you, Shon. It's just the order of things."

Shon's wild eyes were flickering from the frightened Hollis, to Spot, and back to Hollis again. "I ain't bluffing, Conlon. I'll kill the kid. You back off from me, you and Rome, or I'll slit his throat."

Spot laughed and the sound was horribly out of place in the grim scene. He shook his head, smiling ruefully, and looked down at his boots as if embarrassed by it all. "What can I tell you, Shon? I just don't give a shit."

Behind him, as he attempted to keep Jensen from leaping at Spot's throat, Jack saw Shon hesitate. His arm loosened around Hollis. "Hey, Jensen," he said softly to the furious young man, so only he could hear, "take it easy. It'll be alright."

"I'm just thinkin' of you, Shon." Spot continued to speak and Shon continued to slacken his grip on Hollis. The knife began to drift away from his throat. "I mean, all these witnesses. You kill Hollis; you're in an even bigger shit pile than before. Might as well just let him go and get away now. Leave the city or somethin'. Ain't like I'd chase you."

That did the trick. Shon's arm dropped away from Hollis, although the knife remained dangerously close to the boy's throat. "You'd let me leave." He didn't sound like he believed Spot.

Spot nodded. Shon's arms went slack at his sides and Hollis darted away from him. He fled past Spot, but Spot didn't turn to look as he found the safety of Jensen's arms. The Brooklynite's eyes were trained unflinchingly on Shon. His voice had dropped to a soft lull, like some one trying to calm a shying horse.

"If you could make it out of the city," he said quietly, "I wouldn't chase you."

Shon straightened, opening his mouth to say something, just as Kill emerged from the shadows behind him. Jensen made a small noise of surprise as he appeared, but Shon was unable to do anything. He didn't even have time to turn around before Kill was upon him.

The switchblade glinted in the dim light that barely illuminated the alley. Kill's fingers buried in Shon's red hair as he drew the knife quickly across the astonished man's throat. Shon's hands flew up to the gaping wound, but Kill had already let him go, stepping back and letting nature do the rest. A horrible gurgling noise broke the thick silence that hung in the cold air and Jack winced a little. The knife that had been in Shon's hand clattered noisly on a bare patch of cobblestone. The four witnesses watched as Shon's entire body seemed to crumple.

He fell face forward into the dirty snow with a thud and didn't move again. A dark stain of blood seeped out from underneath the body, pooling next to Spot's feet. Jensen and Hollis both stared wide eyed at the stone faced Kill as he shut the switchblade and moved to stand beside Spot.

"Close your mouths," Jack said bitterly, turning away from the others to leave. "You think his name was a joke or something? Why else would they call him Kill?"

Spot and Kill looked back icily at Jensen until he grabbed Hollis by the shoulder and dragged him after Jack.

"We leaving it here?" Kill asked once the other three were gone from view.

"Yeah. Leave it." Spot looked up at him. Neither let the smallest amount of concern show on their faces, whether because they had none, or because neither wanted the other to think the concern was there.

Spot turned and Kill followed him. They stepped over Shon's still warm body and started the journey back to Brooklyn.


	11. Lacrimosa

The tangy smell of the ocean was sharp in the air. Mary stood with her hands folded in front of her and her head bowed. The cold breeze that was drifting off the water stung her cheeks, but she remained unmoving. She stood on a slope of a hill that faced the harbor; one of the many plots of land designated for burial in the city. In the summer the spot was quite pleasant, the view of the city impressive, but in midwinter it was bitter. Snow crunched under her feet as she shifted. She hadn't any flowers to set on the grave at her feet, but she wasn't sure she would have bought any, even if they had been available. Mary's chest was tight with a motley jumble of emotions she couldn't pull apart. One blended into the other until she no longer knew if she was weeping out of sadness or relief.

Her eyes drifted from the unadorned headstone to the empty spot next to it. When they'd been married Shon had bought the space in the graveyard, but hadn't told her. There was room for her and for any children they might have had, if they had chosen to be buried there. It was the kind of foresight that Mary might have once found morbid. However, there was little that could upset her lately. Since Shon's death two weeks previously, Mary had gone through life like she was sleepwalking. She ate, she slept, she kept the house clean and she had attended to Shon's burial, but she had barely spoken. She only went out to buy food and never went farther than the grocery down the street. When ever she stepped outside all she could think of was how she had betrayed Spot Conlon, and how she was still in Brooklyn.

She hadn't told anyone what she had done. Not her friends, not the police; she barely even admitted it to herself. The futility of it all had made her cry the morning of Shon's funeral. She had told him everything to save his life, but it had only gotten him killed in the end anyway. Now she was left scared and all but alone.

The wind whipped around her briefly, stirring her skirts, and in the hollow silence that seemed to cover every graveyard, she heard behind her the sound of feet biting into the crusty snow. Mary didn't turn. She had no interest in which it was, friend or foe. For a moment she wished it would be the latter. She couldn't see where her life could go from here and it left her despairing.

She didn't look up as Spot stepped up to stand next to her. He looked down at the grave and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Why did you marry him?" His voice was rough and unyielding. There was no pity in him for the grief stricken woman. As far as Spot was concerned, Mary had knifed him in the back.

She didn't answer him. Spot's eyes narrowed in frustration and he turned fully to stare down at her. She was smaller than he remembered, but perhaps it was because she was hunched up against the cold.

"He was a murderer. He killed in cold blood, Mary. He killed a man named Richard Winters, him and his whole family; wife, daughter. It didn't matter to him. He was going to kill that kid, Hollis. You remember Hollis?"

Mary continued to gaze at the headstone. She gave Spot no sign of recognition.

A veritable growl of anger rolled up Spot's throat. His hands clenched into fists as he resisted giving her a good shake. "How could you have loved him so much? How could you have given up…" He paused, not sure he wanted to say out loud what he thought she had given up. The worst of it was that he liked Mary, genuinely liked her. He liked her in a way he'd never liked a girl before and it was as though she'd spat in his face.

"You betrayed me." He touched his chest, "you betrayed Kill. You betrayed Brooklyn. You betrayed your people…" Spot turned his face up to the sky, eyes closed and jaw clenched as he attempted to retain composure. Her lack of response was making him see red. She just stood there as though a furious gang leader wasn't about to wring her neck. She just stood there and stared at the headstone.

"He was no great man!" Spot rarely raised his voice, but it did so against his will now. "He was a liar and a cheat. He would have hurt you, eventually. Who was he that you would destroy _everything _for?"

He lapsed into silence, chest heaving with the force of his anger. His cheeks were hot against the cold air and Spot waited.

Mary turned slowly, finally, to look up at him. Her eyes traced over his face and she furrowed her brow slightly, frowning as though she were a disappointed teacher about to discipline a rebellious child.

"He was my husband." She tugged her wool shawl tighter around herself, turning to make her way back down the hill. Spot was left to watch her go; staring slack jawed at her retreating form.

--

In a city as large as New York, it was always surprising how quickly rumors spread. With Shon dead, the truth of his loyalties came to light. Spot had not seen Mary since that morning at the graveyard, but he had made sure she was left alone. Perhaps he had yet to forgive her, but he didn't want to see her hurt either. His boys were given strict orders to stay away from her apartment. He played watchman occasionally, strolling by her building and asking her neighbors for any news.

She'd had the foresight to keep her head low, but rumors still spread. Some were saying that she had killed Shon. Others claimed that she had slept with Spot, so Shon had attacked them both in a fit of rage. It irked Spot, that no matter the rumor, Mary was always the villain. Because she had loved a traitor, Brooklyn had decided she was to be hated as well.

Of course, there were other stories circulating. More and more Irish tenements were going up in flames, even some in Brooklyn. No one knew if it was the Natives doing the burning, or the Dead Rabbits in an attempt to feed the hatred of the Natives.The only thing Spot knew for a fact was that Rome had been jumped while returning from a meeting in Manhattan. His attackers were dead. They hadn't known that Rome McManus carried a colt revolver with him whenever he went out.

"His paranoia finally paid off," Kill joked when they got the news.

Spot gave him a weak smile, but nothing more. He wasn't finding much funny these days. Mary's well being was hanging heavily on his mind. He'd only just barely been able to keep Rome from ordering her killed as well, for informing Shon of the plot on his life. The conflicting feelings Spot had for the girl had been keeping him up at night, and he didn't like that she had such an affect on him.

Kill bent a little to try and catch Spot's eye as they made their rounds. Most days they didn't have a specific job to do, but instead wandered the streets like beat cops, assuring everyone with their presence that everything was under control. Spot glanced up at him, feeling Kill's gaze, and shrugged at the questioning look on his friend's face. He knew he seemed preoccupied; he was. He just didn't have anything to say about it at the moment.

He heard Kill sigh. Spot shot him a glare and a small shove.

"I'll meet you at Gritty's," Spot said, pausing at a corner. He gestured down to the right end of the street. "I got something I need to do."

"Yeah, I bet." Kill knew Spot was going to swing by Mary's again. Spot's interest in her was growing into obsession, but Kill wasn't going to say anything. It was better than Spot deciding she was a traitor and nothing else. He didn't want Spot out for blood. It never ended well.

The comment earned him another glare as the two parted ways, both disappearing into the crowds of pedestrians as though they'd never even been there in the first place.

--

The streets were mobbed. The sky was a startling clear blue that the city hadn't seen in a month. The sun was bright enough to make Spot wince as his strolled through the crowds. It was nearing midday, but he wasn't in any rush. He was just around the corner from Gritty's, already thinking about what he could have for lunch. He'd missed out on breakfast that morning and could hear his stomach grumbling in complaint.

Spot paused mid-step as a group of grimy young pickpockets darted around him like a school of fish. When he looked up after checking to make sure nothing was stolen, he could see Kill's shock of blond hair on the other side of the street. His friend was closer to Gritty's than he, but had stopped to wait for him so they could go in together.

Kill raised his hand in greeting; they were too far apart to hear anything the other said. Spot mimicked the gesture, stepping off the curb to cross the street. The multitudes of people were making it hard for him to keep Kill in view, but the waves would pass and Kill would still be there, smiling and waiting.

But something was wrong. Spot frowned, his still upraised hand going slack. Something dark moved behind Kill like a shadow. Spot felt his whole body go slack as the demonic face of Billy Jennings melted out of the gloom of an awning, just behind the unknowing Kill. Jennings' grin was a horrible contrast to Kill's welcoming smile and Spot's stomach heaved.

Previously frozen in the middle of the street, Spot lifted his foot to break into a run, but it was as though he was moving through molasses. Everything slowed down around him, but Jennings was faced with no such obstructions. Spot opened his mouth to cry out to his friend, but the words clogged in his throat. Kill must have seen the alarm on Spot's face, because he began to turn, just as Jennings raised his hand.

Spot saw nothing after that. A particularly thick swarm of people crossed between him and Kill. Everything kicked back into regular speed and Spot stumbled as though he'd been pushed. His breath was fast and ragged in his throat as he shoved his way through the dense, infuriating crowd.

Before he could step up onto the opposite sidewalk he heard a scream. Spot broke through the last group of New Yorkers just in time to see Kill's legs give out from underneath him. Kill's eyes were vacant, startled, as though some one had just slapped him unexpectedly.

Spot caught him by the front of the shirt, keeping him from falling backwards to the sidewalk. People had cleared out from around them, staring, but Spot couldn't see anything besides the vivid bloom of blood that was staining Kill's shirt, just underneath his right bottom rib.

Spot's own legs crumpled and the pair sank to the ground. It was loud, too loud; the yelling of the crowd, the traffic of wagons in the street. Spot shook his head as he struggled for breath. There was a roaring in his ears, so when he looked down at Kill and saw his lips moving Spot couldn't hear a word.

The roaring faded some and Spot realized he was yelling.

"Wait." He gave Kill a desperate shake as the dying boy's eyes dimmed, mouth open in gurgling breath. "Wait, wait, wait. Don't, not yet." His voice wasn't his own. It was distant and faint, the roaring still overwhelming everything else.

Kill gave a heaving gasp. His body, sprawled over Spot's legs, convulsed. He threw a hand up and caught Spot by the shoulder, his fingers like knives against Spot's flesh. Blood stained his frighteningly pale face as he coughed, but Spot finally heard the words that had rattled dryly, by Kill's lips.

"_Sí togradh tar muin thart."_

"It'll come back around."

--

The sun still shone mercilessly, but Jack had pulled all the curtains so that the small apartment above Gritty's was dark; a shelter for Spot to hide in. The Manhattan leader leaned over the plain wooden table in the main room, head turned so he was staring at the closed door that led to one of the two bedrooms. Racetrack sat across from him. Both had been silent for a good half hour, just watching the closed door. Spot was in there; where they'd left him after finding him bent over Kill's prostrate body.

A newcomer to Spot's following, a young British boy called Dibs, had burst into the Manhattan Lodging House, wild eyed and yelling about Kill. Jack had gone with him immediately, but hadn't believed it until he saw it. Among the street rats and teenaged thugs of New York, Kill had been a legend, verging on myth. Even Jack had believed some of it; the idea that the huge Irishman had been invincible. Why else would Spot have trusted him with his life so completely?

Jack heaved a huge sigh and dropped his head to the table top. Racetrack nodded, knowing just what the sigh meant. There was nothing they could do for Spot. Both Race and Jack had seen friends die before, but no one as close as Kill had been to Spot.

"Something needs to happen," Race said suddenly, making Jack look up at him.

Jack nodded as he straightened, setting his elbows on the table and his hands in his hair. "Yeah, I know."

"Before he does something himself," Race clarified. "You know he's in there, just imagining all the ways Jennings can die."

"He won't go after Jennings." Jack rubbed at his slightly runny nose before wrinkling it in thought. Race just sent him a confused look.

"He'll go after Tweed. Tweed paid Jennings to do it, I'll bet you anything. For what Kill did to Shon."

Race nodded in understanding, rubbing his hands anxiously over his thighs. Both the boys had been up all night, sitting outside Spot's room to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. "So, what then? What do we do?"

"We get to Tweed first." Jack shrugged, "we get to him before Spot does."

--

The first five rows of pews were full. Spot sat in the front, pressed into one end of the pew, staring off to the side at the bright blue stained window. The last time he'd been here, Kill had been alive. He had been praying, talking, laughing, plotting. Now he was buried in the same graveyard as Shon, overlooking the river, and Spot was sitting through the memorial service the Nuns from the lodging house had organized.

A week ago his best friend had been stabbed in the heart, and Spot hadn't said a word since then. For the first few days Jack had tried relentlessly to get Spot to speak, taunting him even, but to no avail. Spot had fallen into silence and it didn't seem as though he was about to come out of it.

He was surrounded by orphans, street rats, newsies, hired muscle and gangster; a strange assortment of people who associated quite comfortably with the Nuns who dotted the gathering. Kill had been well known and well liked, but Spot gathered no comfort from the presence of friends. He just stared at the window, the familiar face of the Virgin Mary gazing down at him beatifically. He wanted to break the glass.

The priest who stood by the alter stopped speaking, although Spot hadn't been listening to him in the first place, and the organ at the back of the church filled the echoing, cavernous hall with mournful strains of Lacrimosa.

A hand brushed his back and Spot turned slowly to see who it was. Rome sat in the pew behind him, gazing straight forward. Something burned in his eyes that Spot recognized, something he felt in his own gaze. Still silent, he nodded to the Ráibéad leader.

"We're going to make him pay." Rome's voice was barely audible under the weeping organ, but Spot caught it. He nodded again.

"Kelly has a plan, a good one. It'll make him suffer."

Spot lifted one eyebrow at this. He hadn't known Jack was plotting anything, but he wanted to know what it was.

"But you gotta promise something, Conlon." Rome was still talking. Spot switched his attention back to him. "You gotta let us handle it. You keep yourself out of trouble, at least for a while. You're too close."

There was a long pause in which Spot turned back to stare up at the church window. His hands remained folded in his lap, although they clenched some, finger nails digging into his palm. When he finally answered, it was joined by the sound of a woman's high, clear voice, putting the Lacrimosa to words. _Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla judicandus homo reus. Huic ergo parce, Deus Pie Jesu Domine, Dona eis requiem._

"Alright."

_Tearful that day, on which will rise from ashes guilty man for judgment. So have mercy, O God, on this person, Compassionate Lord Jesus, grant them rest._


	12. Downfall

Jack Kelly stood with his back pressed to the cold brick of the large stately townhouse he and Jensen were waiting in front of. The sun had set hours ago, leaving the streets in their tawdry and dangerous state of half illumination, the lamps spilling weakly over the cobblestone. They were a few streets down from Tammany Hall, and Boss Tweed was asleep in the top floor of the large house they were both gazing at. It sat across the street, the windows dark and the bottom two floors uninhabited.

Jack had spent yesterday afternoon getting to know the youngest of Tweed's maids, and the sixteen year old girl had been more than eager to tell the dashing Jack anything he wanted to know about the house.

Tweed's man servant slept in a small room at the back of the house, but that was all the protection he had at night. Jack had been shocked to hear that the politician didn't even keep a doorman. It seemed Tweed was over confident, something Jack wouldn't have assumed. It was strange that a man so reckless with his own safety, in a world where enemies are abundant, would make it so far. Luck, Jack thought to himself, toe tapping on the cobblestone, pure luck.

"Jack…" Jensen's voice sounded small in the canyon of the avenue. Jack just held a finger to his lips and pushed off the wall. Some one was coming down the street. Jack grabbed the boy's arm and tugged him into the shadow. They could not allow themselves to be seen outside Tweed's house, not tonight.

His shoulders eased and he released Jensen once he saw Rome's grim face as the older man stepped into the lamp light.

"It's done?" Jack moved toward him.

"It's done. I left him in his office." Rome's lips cracked into a horrible grin. "Tweed's name is written on his window."

Jack heard Jensen swallow loudly, and unhappily, behind him. He didn't let his distaste for Rome show on his face, instead, nodded, and gestured to the house. "We'll just go through the front door. We'll be heard if we go through the back. You got what we need?"

Rome held up a knife. It glistened wetly in the lamp light. Jack couldn't help but notice that Rome was immaculate, not a drop of blood to mar his pristine appearance. It was good, he thought, that the man was so compulsive, it made for a clean frame up.

Jack nodded and started across the street. He heard the other two follow him. He wished, as he reached the front door and began to pick the lock, that Jensen hadn't come along. The boy was obviously anxious, jumping at every noise. They couldn't afford for anyone to hear them. But Jensen had insisted. Jack wondered if he felt guilty for what happened to Kill, or perhaps felt some sort of obligation to him because of what he did for Hollis. Either way, he was here, with a very condemning letter in his pocket.

The door swung open without a sound. Jack looked over his shoulder to Rome and Jensen, holding a finger to his lips to indicate complete silence. Not a word could be uttered. The three of them slipped their shoes off before stepping inside and their socked feet were silent on the wood floor of the house. Jack led the way to the office Tweed kept on the bottom floor of his house. They felt their way down the long halls, hands flat against the walls so as not to run into anything.

Jack eased the door to the office open. He stuck his head in to make sure it was, in fact, the room they were looking for, before entering and moving to the window. He pulled the curtains back to let the lamp light in.

He turned to point Jensen to the large desk on the far side of the spacious office, but Jensen was already there. He pulled the expensive sheet of paper from his back pocket and placed it, half open, just under a book Tweed had left on the desk top.

It was a letter, written by Jensen, but seemingly signed by the man Rome had just murdered, threatening Tweed. They had created Tweed's motive, now they needed to plant the murder weapon.  
Rome stood next to Jensen and motioned him to the side. The bottom drawer to the desk slid open, catching once, and Rome slid the stained knife inside. He had wrapped the weapon in a handkerchief he'd taken off the dead man. Perhaps it was obvious, but it would be enough to get Tweed accused.

The three exchanged glances. Jack nodded once and as he went to close the curtains again, Rome's sharp eyes swept the dark room to make sure nothing else had been touched. Once the lamp light from the street had been extinguished, Jack led them back out again. The door clicked shut behind Jensen and the three melted out into the night, all three hoping it would appear as though no one had been there at all.

--

"Tweed targeted in twisted tragedy!"

"Killer's name written in blood on window!"

"Tweed to be arraigned today for murder of top aid!"

It was a day, Spot realized, on which the newsies didn't have to make up a headline. This news was the juiciest to come out of New York since the previous mayor's sex scandal. He leaned against the side of a fruit stand, strategically placing himself in the middle of the flurry to sell newspapers so he could hear each and every headline.

"Bloody knife confiscated from Tweed's own home!"

That brought another eager wave of gossip hungry citizens in. On a better day, it might have made Spot smile, but at this point, he didn't think he could remember how to smile anymore. Two weeks since Kill's death. One week since Jensen, Jack and Rome had planted the evidence in Tweed's home. They were convinced he would be convicted, even Rome. Jack had said the evidence they used was undeniable, that they had left no trace of themselves. Rome had even written "Tweed" in the murdered man's blood on the window of the room he'd left the body in. The newspapers loved that, saying it was the victim's last cry for justice.

Of course, there was no mention amongst the framers of the innocent man who'd had to die. Rome had said he hadn't really been that innocent, but as far as Spot was concerned, he hadn't been a part of Kill's death. He dwelled on that fact, although he didn't blame himself. There was one person Spot was blaming for all of this, Kill's death, the murder of the aid.

"Tweed expected to plead innocent!"

Spot's fists curled and uncurled at his sides. He wasn't so naive as to believe Tweed would be convicted. And even if the Boss was sent away for life, it would do nothing to ease the emptiness of Spot's chest.

"Their plan? It won't work." A familiar voice made Spot turn his head to his right. Kill was leaning against the rickety stand, arms folded on his chest, blue eyes darting out over the crowded street. "He'll get off."

"You think I'm stupid?" Spot looked back to the newsies as they yelled ceaselessly. "I know it won't work."

"So what're you going to do?" Kill set those eyes on Spot, and the Brooklyn leader could feel them burning into his cheek.

Spot shrugged and pushed off the stand. "It'll come back around. You know."

Kill smiled and nodded as Spot started off down the street. "I know."

--

The carriage that pulled up in front of the courthouse was mobbed immediately by a swarm of reporters and photographers, their flash bulbs popping every few seconds. Tweed hadn't even stepped out yet and the crowd was in already in conniptions.

Spot watched from his place just down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, eyes hooded. He looked almost as if he were falling asleep on his feet, incredibly disinterested by the frenzy.

The door to the carriage swung open and Tweed's manservant stepped out first, using his broad stature to clear a path through the crowd. Like some sort of amorphous mass, the reporters moved with the accused, with the photographers swinging around, trying constantly to get a better angle.

Spot moved back a few steps until he could slide into the throng, ducking under arms and around clamoring bodies. He edged around Tweed's man, eyes sharp, suddenly attentive, careful. Above all, he couldn't allow himself to be seen by Tweed. He had to wait for the moment where he could be sure this would work. It had to be perfect.

"Gentlemen!" A booming voice echoed over the noise and in almost one movement the reporters swung around to look up at Tweed's lawyer as he descended the steps of the court house. They pounced on him, sweeping an unsuspecting body guard with them, until both the lawyer and the manservant were distracted with the effort of extracting themselves.

Spot slid forward on silent feet. The street was anything but empty. Anyone could see him, but those thoughts didn't enter his mind as he pulled the switchblade from his pocket.

"Gentlemen if you will. Please give poor Mr. Tweed his air?" The lawyer bellowed as Spot pulled Tweed's head back and slit his throat in one rough motion. Before he did anything else, Spot flicked the knife shut and slid it back in his pocket. Tweed began to collapse, hands to his ruined throat, and Spot dropped with him, hands suddenly frantic over the man's chest and face.

"Hey!" He shouted. The crowd swung back around to stare at him. "Hey! Some one help!"

A number of screams went up and the street was thrown into a state of chaos. Spot remained kneeling beside the dying man. He waved his arm vaguely behind him as the manservant, face as dark as a thunder cloud, approached him. "It was one of Jennings' men! He ran off toward Trinity Church!"

The man hesitated and Spot shot him a frantic look. "I work for Tweed, alright? Go!"

Tweed gurgled something incomprehensible and pointed up, seemingly in the same path as Spot's directions. The body guard needed no more urging and took off like a shot. Some one had begun screaming for a doctor, but Spot kept his eyes on Tweed.

The large man made another horrific noise and his hand fell away from his throat, revealing the open wound that had once been his throat. Spot shook his head and put a finger to his victim's lips. "No, sir," he said. "Don't try and talk."

Tweed's eyes went wide like a deer caught in a wolf's sights and the gurgling grew worse. He tried to shift away from Spot's ostensibly supporting arms, but couldn't as his life bled from him, pooling on the street.

"Don't worry, sir," Spot whispered, bending close and closing his eyes. "It'll come back around."


	13. Brooklyn

Gritty's was packed and rowdy, but Spot had yet to venture down for something to eat. He sat in his bedroom, just barely on the edge of his bed, bent forward with his elbows on his knees. The sun had set and moon was blocked by the heavy cloud cover that had drifted in during the day. The cold had returned, keeping any more snow from falling, and the city was grim again, huddled and waiting for the weather to finally break.

He felt as though he had nothing at all to do. Tweed was dead, his killer still at large. The newspapers had been plastered with pictures of Spot reverently comforting Tweed through his last moments of life. The Brooklyn leader was being called a "loyal friend", although his name was never mentioned. He was glad of that. Spot had never wanted to make it into the papers.

The Boss's death had been a fleeting satisfaction and the hollowness remained in Spot's chest. When he stepped outside, he felt as though the wind whistled straight through him, like it did through the bare branches on the trees.

The door to his apartment opened and he turned his head to look out into the main room. He hadn't lit any lamps, but through the darkness he could see Jack Kelly edging around the table and chairs. Spot hadn't seen anyone but James since coming back from the court house, although it wasn't from lack of people trying.

Jack and Spot locked eyes, holding the other's gaze for a long, arduous moment, before Spot turned to look back out the window.

"It was stupid, what you did. Really fucking stupid." Jack's voice wasn't scolding. He spoke as though he were commenting on the weather.

"I know."

"Anyone could have seen you. You still don't know that no one did."

"Jack." Spot stopped him before he could continue. "Kill is dead."

This time it was Jack who could not keep Spot's empty grey gaze. His shoulders slumped and he sighed, nodding. "He is."

Spot nodded once, turning away again. Jack frowned and took a step forward so that he stood just inside the bedroom. "He's _dead_ Spot. Do you understand that? There's nothing you can do anymore."

Jack thought he saw a tremor go through Spot's frame, but he didn't move otherwise. Jack's stomach hurt, he realized. A horrible sort of ache that he hadn't felt for Spot before. He had respected Spot, he'd hated him and feared him, but he had never hurt for him before.

"Rome moved into Tammany." Jack could sense Spot's discomfort and he changed the subject to avoid it. "He says you have a job with him when…" He paused; searching for the right word for what Spot was going through. "Well, when you want it."

"And us?" Spot straightened, taking a deep breath before looking at Jack again. "Where do we stand?"

"On even ground, Spot." Jack shrugged, "as far as I'm concerned, Manhattan is still ready to help you."

Spot just stared at him for a long time before nodding graciously. "Thanks."

Jack stepped forward again and set a steady hand on the grieving boy's shoulder. "Yeah. Any time."

--

The next morning had dawned on Spot to find him awake and exhausted, wandering the streets like he didn't have a warm bed to fall into to. Sleep had escaped him for the past few days, his mind unwilling to witness Kill's death endlessly through the night.

He rubbed his chilled fingers together, not quite so cold warmed as they were by the gloves Elise had given him three days before. Spot stared up at Mary's apartment building, watching the first rays of sun glint off the windows of the tenement. He'd been told the news the day before, when he'd been on his way to the court house. Billy Jennings had broken into Mary's home, quite publicly, and had been about to slit her throat when the three eldest sons of Mary's neighbor had rushed in to throw him off the terrified woman.

Spot hadn't planned on doing anything else for Mary beside check up on her occasionally, but he found himself at the train yards earlier that morning, buying a one way ticket upstate. He knew she couldn't stay here any longer, and Spot guessed she knew that as well.

He made his way up the stairs, his muscles slowly loosening up after being in the cold for so long. He dragged his feet on the way to Mary's door, unsure of what to say to her. After Kill's death he had found himself quite unable to be angry with the girl. He stared at the plain wood before knocking.

There was no sound for a long moment, but he heard footsteps cross the floor and then stop just short of the doorway. He sighed and dropped his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes. He was so tired.

"Mary," he whispered, only loud enough to be heard through the door. "I heard about Jennings." He thought he heard her give a little gasp, but he wasn't sure.

"I brought you this." He bent and slid the train ticket under the door. The paper scraped the floor as it was picked up. "I asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, downstairs. She said you had an aunt up in Albany. You should go stay with her. Jennings is leaving the city…" That fact struck a chord of satisfaction in Spot's gut. Jennings had no allies anymore. He had fled like a scalded cat, tail between his legs. "He's leaving," he continued, "but you should still go."

The silence of early morning hung heavy all through out the building and Mary didn't break it. Spot sighed again. "Goodbye, Mary." He turned to go. He made it half way down the hall before he heard a door open behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a pale faced Mary, ticket clutched in both her hands.

"Spot." Her voice floated down the hall to him. He faced her completely, hoping his concern for her wasn't too obvious in his expression.

"I heard…a-about Kill," she stammered. She seemed a different person, Spot thought with a pang in his heart. He hoped the fear hadn't ruined her. He ducked his head, dropping his eyes to her feet at the mention of Kill.

"I'm sorry."

The words made him wince. He swallowed hard as he shook his head. "You don't have to apologize, Mary. Not for anything."

He twisted on his heel, resolving not to look back at her as he advanced down the hall. Part of Spot was wishing Mary would stay; stay with him, but he knew that would be impossible for her. Spot dragged a hand over his eyes, trying to dispel the burning of exhaustion and sorrow that dwelled there. Even with Jennings gone, Mary would not be able to sleep as soundly as she used to; not in New York. He wondered if he would be able to either.

--

The Brooklyn Bridge towered over Spot, the grey stone set against grey sky and grey water. Spot wondered, with his back pressed to one of the arches in the center of the bridge, if the color had been bled from the world, or if it was just his eyes that couldn't see the different shades.

The first week after Kill's death had been spent in a daze, the second in a hot rage he had believed would burn him from the inside out. After that came the deep, penetrating sadness, although it was not just because his friend was gone. Spot had found himself doubting his ability to live in New York any longer. It was his home; it always would be, but now every thud of his foot on the cobblestone felt wrong. His city had betrayed him.

Spot shook his head free of the thought and turned his head up to look at the very top of the arch. There was a door, tucked near the top. He'd seen it before, but did not know what it was for, or how it had gotten there. The building of the bridge had been immense and impressive, a legend that Brooklyn prided itself on, but there was that door, inexplicable and intriguing.

"A doorway out of here," he mumbled to himself. It was appropriate. Kill had had his cathedral, Spot had the Brooklyn Bridge. He'd mentioned that to his friend before and Kill had agreed. The bridge was like a temple to them both, sheltering and immobile.

The feel of granite against his back calmed him some. Spot stretched out both arms to press his palms flat against the tower. He was steadied, held up by the stone and the boardwalk.

"Not betrayal," the wind whispered through the suspension cables. "We didn't mean for it to happen."

Spot felt hot, infuriating tears rush up behind his eyes, but he swallowed them back down again. The moment of weakness passed and he took a deep breath. He could not hate the city. He turned his head to the side so his cheek was pressed to the stone as well. The salt sting off the water filled his nose.

"Not betrayal," he said to a passing seagull as he opened his eyes, "but not protection either."

Spot thought briefly that he had lost his mind, but the idea didn't sound too unappealing. Most people he knew, older people, who had lived in New York their whole lives, had lost their minds long ago. He had figured it was just a matter of time.

He had changed, he decided. The city had not, it was still dirty, still corrupt, still beautiful in its grit and grime, but he had changed. That was enough for now.

--

_Thank you's to all my reviewers, for being faithful and enthusiastic. Thanks to Keza for actually making me write the god damn thing (wait...I finished it? Seriously?). Thanks to Regina Spektor for the song "December" because it pretty much drove this whole thing (Download it). Thanks to Trevor Jones for scoring "Last of the Mohicans" the way he did, because it is the soundtrack of this story (Seriously kids. Listen to "The Kiss" if you ever re-read this.) Thanks to Kenny Ortega for directing one of the hands down easiest movies to fanfic and thanks to The Dead Rabbits for existing. And uh...thanks to the Academy? Wait...no._


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